


Juke Box Hero

by Eilonwy_the_white



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Domestic Violence, Gen, Gender or Sex Swap, M/M, No Smut, Season/Series 11, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:55:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 29,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28175763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eilonwy_the_white/pseuds/Eilonwy_the_white
Summary: On a routine case while they try to ignore the looming threat of Amara, Sam and Dean stop for a night of karaoke in New Mexico. Dean's inability to sing turns out to be the least of their problems.Based on a Twitter discussion of how the show could have gotten Dean in drag without making him a clown.Rated M for violence.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 107
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadowlark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowlark/gifts).



> This may end up being a part of an unconnected series of episodes we could have had if the writers had bothered to use Google for other creatures instead of just falling back on angels, demons, and bastardized Christian mythology. 
> 
> Chapter count is an estimate. It's not going to be six books.
> 
> Open to prompts.

Kids were drowning in the Rio Grande. Ten so far and counting. It looked like a La Llorna and should have been as simple as finding the dead woman who fit the bill of going mad after tragically losing her children, then salting and burning her bones.

It was not that simple. 

The drive down to New Mexico had been long and dusty after their last case in Ohio, and all Sam wanted to do was get a motel room and crash. The gas station hotdogs they’d grabbed outside of Logan sat like lead in his stomach, and now that they’d reached their destination of Truth or Consequences, he wanted a shower, a salad, and a bed to lay down on, hopefully without bugs. But Dean wasn’t tired after the latest ten-hour drive and spotted this bar on the way into town, and the sign said they had karaoke on Thursdays. It was just Sam’s luck that it happened to be Thursday.

The Feathered Coyote was the kind of dive bar that could be found in any small city dotting the southwest, interchangeable for the most part between the dark overhead lighting, dying neon sign out front, and overly fried foods. The beer wasn’t quite cold enough, the liquor tasted slightly watered down, and the pool tables needed refurbishing. When Sam complained about stopping before getting a room ( _there was a motel just down the street, for god’s sake_ ), Dean told him to hustle up some cash if he was so bored; otherwise, pull the stick out of his ass and relax. Sam considered doing just that to spite his brother by winning a couple hundred and then refusing to share, but the felt tops were thin and torn, and it wasn’t worth the effort. Dean was already off at the bar ordering them drinks and getting one of the songbooks from the bartender anyway, so Sam found a hightop in the corner and settled in for a good night of sulking.

Despite the lackluster menu and questionable cleanliness, the Feathered Coyote was apparently _the_ place to be on a Thursday night. By the time their wings and jalapeno poppers arrived, the bar was filling up rapidly, with everyone grabbing golf-sized pencils and little slips of paper to put in their names and songs. The DJ on the rickety stage at the front of the room was a pretty, petite redhead with a nice speaker setup and a rack even Sam had to appreciate. Much as he tried not to objectify women, the way her Brooks and Dunn tank top clung and dipped into her cleavage was hard to ignore.

Dean noticed, too, of course, though for once, he seemed more excited by the karaoke than the DJ. He’d been like this for a while now, disinterested in sex, ever since the Amara thing started. Sam realized it after the Qareen. Thought back to all the cases they’d been on recently and couldn’t remember a single one where they’d hit up a bar and Dean tried to hook up with anyone. Sam, in fact, had gotten laid more recently, which practically went against the laws of nature. And now that he was _really_ thinking about it, the last woman his brother showed even the slightest interest in was that nun back in Massachusetts, and she was married to God, so…

“Take a picture. It’ll last longer.”

Dean didn’t even look up from the book, which was actually a binder with pages of song lists protected from spills by plastic sheets as sticky as the tabletop. Sam felt his face flush at being called out for staring, especially when he knew there were things they should talk about and weren’t going to. Chief among them was Amara and the pull she exerted over his brother. Sam had only once broached the subject of the power imbalance between his brother and a goddess, hadn’t dared breathe the word “consent” when Amara didn’t need it. The things they fought rarely did, and after everything they’d both been through, discussing consent or the lack thereof was taboo.

“Sorry, just mentally preparing myself for when you get up there and my ears start bleeding.” Little brother snark was always a good deflection. “What are you putting up?”

“Dunno.” Dean was reading the list with even more scrutiny than he gave dessert menus comprised mostly of pie. “We’re in New Mexico. You think [_Life on Mars_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AZKcl4-tcuo) is too cliché?”

“Yes, Dean. I think [_Life on Mars_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AZKcl4-tcuo) is too cliché.”

“[ _Starman_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tRcPA7Fzebw)?”

“Dean.”

“What? If they don’t want people singing them, they shouldn’t put ‘em in the book.”

“Dean, it’s enough that these poor unsuspecting people are going to have to listen to you in the first place. Don’t make it worse.”

Dean appeared genuinely offended as he looked up from his slip of paper, and Sam regretted having said anything for a fraction of a second before reminding himself he’d be spending the evening in second-hand embarrassment for his tone-deaf brother.

“You’re no fun,” the older Winchester declared and stomped off to turn in his first slip of paper. Sam barely squashed the urge to call him a teenage girl.

The jalapeno poppers and chicken wings were gone, and they were splitting a basket of fries when the karaoke started to hoots and hollers from the crowd. Dean was right there with the locals, clapping and cheering around a mouthful of crinkly fries and ketchup. He’d already switched from subpar beer to truly terrible well whiskey, and Sam was keeping count to know when Dean had enough that he wouldn’t notice his baby brother telling the waitress to cut him off. He wasn’t anywhere close to that yet, but he was loose-limbed enough that there was a little extra swagger in his bowlegged walk when the DJ called him up to sing [_Surrender_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1sAm5UCJ9vA).

Sam was pleasantly surprised that Dean picked a song with a limited range and didn’t go too badly awry, even if he’d never known Cheap Trick to be high up on his brother’s list of favorite bands. Still, it was nice to see his brother relax a little. The DJ gifted him with a brilliant smile before telling everyone to “give it up for Dean.” Even nicer was when the bar genuinely applauded for him. Dean all but skipped down off the stage and jogged back to the table, beaming, to figure out his next song.

As the night wore on, the list of singers got longer, and Sam got increasingly tired. Dean hadn’t looked away long enough for Sam to intercept the waitress and was well on his way to getting hammered, and as much as he wanted to support his brother, there were only so many badly sung country songs Sam could listen to. It was even worse when Dean was finally called up a second time and had chosen [_(Don’t Fear) The Reaper_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dy4HA3vUv2c). Again, his brother had chosen a song with a limited range and therefore didn’t butcher it too badly, but given the subject matter and their history with Death, Sam couldn’t help squirming in his seat. 

When the guitar bridge came in around the two-minute mark, he grabbed the car keys and made his way to the stage to let Dean know he was going to get them a room at the Crooked River Inn down the street. Dean agreed with a nod, stumbling just enough that Sam had second thoughts about leaving him behind. Then the DJ was at Dean’s elbow, leaning in to run a hand over his bicep and speak directly into his ear. The way Dean’s mouth quirked up at the corner had Sam rolling his eyes and hoping the motel room doors were thick enough he wouldn’t hear the Impala squeaking later.

He didn’t hear the Impala squeaking, though he did hear Dean drunkenly picking the lock several hours after he’d finally fallen asleep. Sam was glad he made it back to the motel in the chilly March temps and could see straight enough to read the room number on the paper Sam left under the windshield wipers. Usually, Sam could get a good idea of how drunk his brother was based on how long it took to pick a lock, and Dean was out there for at least a minute, so he was probably pretty plastered. It looked like he’d be hitting up the library on his own in the morning to search the archives for tragic deaths while Dean slept off yet another hangover.

“Make sure to lay the salt line again,” Sam grumbled half into his pillow as his brother bumped into the table by the door. Dean responded with a grunt, bumped around some more, and thankfully didn’t need to turn on the light to accomplish this most basic task. Minutes later, Dean’s boots hit the floor, followed by the sound of his belt unbuckling, his bedsprings creaked, and the room was filled with his soft, even snores.

Even though he wasn’t the one who got drunk the night before, Sam ended up confused in the morning as he rolled over to turn off his phone alarm and spotted the mop of red hair sticking up above the tangle of the comforter on Dean’s bed. Long red curls splayed across the pillow, and Sam must have been more tired than he thought to have missed Dean bringing a woman back to the room. Whoever it was, she was tiny, tucked up into a little ball and barely reaching half the length of the mattress. Sam had to give Dean credit at least for being quiet with whatever he’d gotten up to the night before, though he was still irritated at his brother’s conquests meaning an awkward morning for him.

“Dean,” he called softly towards the bathroom, trying not to wake their guest. The door was closed, but he didn’t hear the shower running. It would be pure Winchester luck if Dean choked to death on his own vomit in the bathroom. “Dean!”

The bathroom was empty when he opened the door, however, and didn’t look like it had been used since he took his shower the night before. There was only one towel hung up to dry, and Dean’s travel kit still sat fully packed on the back of the toilet. Only Sam’s toothbrush was out with the paste and his razor, the hair prickling at the back of his neck as he fought to convince himself that didn’t necessarily mean anything. The woman in the bed had turned over in her sleep, confirming his suspicion it was the DJ, and he tiptoed back to the aisle between the double beds to slip into his clothes and shoes before heading outside.

He fully expected the Impala to be gone, confirming Dean wasn’t nearly as drunk as he appeared and had simply gone off to get coffee and breakfast. The sight of her still parked in front of their room with Sam’s note under the windshield had the hairs standing up on the back of his neck again. There was a diner within walking distance, so it was still possible Dean went to get them breakfast, but it also couldn’t have been much over forty degrees outside. The idea of Dean walking anywhere he didn’t have to in forty-degree weather was laughable. His brother was getting downright delicate in his rapidly approaching middle age.

“Dean?” Sam called, wondering if maybe he planned to get breakfast and had to run off around the corner of the building to puke. It wouldn’t be the first time. “Dean?”

The stillness of the parking lot was deafening as Sam ran through all the possibilities of what might have happened to his brother and couldn’t come up with anything good this early in the morning. He’d just pulled out his phone with sweating palms to try calling Dean when a scream sounded inside their motel room, followed by a second, longer scream, and then a third. Visions of the DJ finding Dean dead in the kitchenette flashed through Sam’s head as he burst through the door, the dim morning light still cutting through the gaps in the curtains to reveal that Dean’s companion was definitely no longer in bed. She wasn’t in the kitchenette either, though, since her voice was coming from the bathroom.

Sam grabbed the gun he slept with under his pillow and bolted to the bathroom, thinking maybe he’d somehow missed Dean propped up dead behind the shower curtain or hanging behind the door. Instead, the only person in there was the DJ, staring at the bathroom mirror in horror, her hands cupping her breasts to her chest like she thought they were going to fall off if she let them go. She was wearing Dean’s tee shirt from the night before, which skimmed the top of her thighs under her ass and hung off of one creamy, white shoulder. When she spotted Sam in the doorway, she screamed again, shouted, “ _Get the hell out, Sam!_ ” and kicked the door shut.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean officially had no idea what the hell was going on. He blearily remembered the night before, getting to sing two more songs ([ ** _Who’ll Stop the Rain_ **](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lIPan-rEQJA) _and_ [**_Dream On_**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=89dGC8de0CA) _, which had, admittedly, been a mistake_ ), and then hanging out after closing for another round with the DJ, whose name was Mac, and the bartender. For quite a while, it seemed like he was going to break his dry spell, the longest one he’d had since things ended with Lisa, but in the end, when she leaned in to invite him back to her place, he politely declined. 

“Why?” she breathed against his ear, close enough that he could feel her smiling, the soft swell of her ample breasts pressed gently into his bicep. “That big guy you came in with waiting for you back home?”

“What?” Dean laughed. He had more than enough alcohol in him to find the assumption amusing rather than irritating. “No, that’s my brother.”

“Hmm. Someone else then?”

“No.” Even as he said the word his guts clenched and he tasted bile at the back of his throat. “Kinda.”

“Oh?”

“It’s not...it’s not reciprocal. She just won’t leave me alone.”

“That what you’re doin’ down here? Tryin’ to get away from her?”

“I can’t ever get away from her.”

Mac didn’t push after that, but stared at him for a long time, almost as if she could read how dirty his soul was through his eyes. It made him profoundly uncomfortable to be seen in such a way, and he thanked the bartender for letting him stay then left to stagger back to the motel. He could still feel her eyes on his back as the door swung shut.

Sam, ever the good younger brother, had left him a note on his Baby’s windshield so he’d know which room was theirs, even if the whiskey had him seeing double. He figured it was probably the one she was parked in front of, but it never hurt to be sure. His steps were unsteady, and while the cold late winter night had sobered him up some, it also left him shaking as he dug out his lockpick set and went to work on the door. For a moment he considered waking Sam up to let him in, but that carried with it the risk of having to admit he’d walked away from the pretty redhead, which then might lead to Sam wanting to know _why_ , and he’d rather pick a lock with frozen fingers than try to get Sam to drop a conversation where feelings were involved. So far they’d managed to avoid the Amara-shaped elephant in the room. He wanted to keep the streak going, and he just didn’t feel like fighting when he was this drunk.

Sam’s even breathing greeted him when he finally got the door open, a mumbled reminder to lay down the salt line the only confirmation he got that his brother knew he was back. It was all that needed to be said between them since he’d already whacked his knee on the table by the door and was trying not to curse. Sam had made his displeasure at stopping for karaoke more than clear, and waking him up in the middle of the night was another sure way to end up in the fight he wanted to avoid at all costs. He found his bed more by muscle memory of the basic layout of every motel they'd stayed in than sight, toeing off his shoes, shucking his pants ( _he needed to do laundry, he was out of underwear and hated going commando_ ), then climbed under the covers to pass out.

The sound of the door clicking shut woke him the next morning, his whole body tingling as he rolled over to get out of bed. His head felt like it was filled with cotton and there was a weird buzz running along his skin. It all combined into the overall sensation that he was disconnected from his body, which was not a pleasant experience first thing in the morning. He guessed Sam had just left to get breakfast, and though he wanted to tell him to grab the largest coffee he could find, Dean really needed to drain the lizard and made a beeline for the bathroom instead. This was the strangest hangover of his life, every inch of him continuing to tingle and the floaty feeling growing with every step. He groped for the overhead light before staggering his way over to the toilet and dropping down, not entirely trusting his aim when he felt so off.

It was then that he noticed for the first time the very distinct lack of a penis dangling between his legs. For a few seconds, his brain dropped offline while he emptied his bladder, completely unable to process anything other than Little Dean having wandered off in the middle of the night. When his consciousness came back to him, thankfully not until he’d stopped peeing, he lifted the shirt just to make sure his dick hadn’t somehow migrated further up his abdomen, and when he confirmed it hadn’t, he screamed. 

That was his second shock of the morning. The sound that came out of him was decidedly not his gravelly baritone and was, rather, very high pitched. He leaped off the toilet, momentarily distracted by the dripping he could feel down the inside of one thigh ( _oh god, that was gross_ ), and whipped around to see if the mirror could help him find his missing penis.

He screamed again when he saw Mac’s face staring back at him. Her hair was there, too, as was her petite frame and ample bosom. This had to be a joke or a dream. Maybe someone slipped some kind of hallucinogenic into his drink; only when he grabbed a handful of each breast with tiny little hands he was able to confirm they were very, very real, and screamed a third time. 

That was when Sam showed up, bedhead in full force and a gun in his hand, looking startled and confused. Whatever hangover Dean had been suffering from was instantly gone as he realized he was only wearing a tee-shirt and didn’t want anyone, most especially his brother, to know exactly what changes had taken place overnight, as if he didn’t already have a clue. Dean certainly didn’t know why this couldn’t have happened to Sam when he was already the one who used fruity shampoos and conditioners, but he shouted, “ _Get the hell out, Sam!_ ” and kicked the door shut. After considering his options for a moment, he locked it as well. Sam was a gentleman, after all. He’d never force his way into a bathroom occupied by what was, by all outward appearances, a panicking woman.

He would, however, pound on the door, which is exactly what he was doing as Dean dropped down onto the floor and stuck his head between his knees to keep from passing out. It didn’t actually make him feel any better when it gave him such a clear view of exactly what alerted him to his problem in the first place. Plus there was still urine on the inside of his leg and he really didn’t have the mental capacity to deal with that right now, so he grabbed the sink and pulled himself back to his feet. Faced with the mirror again, he tentatively removed the tee-shirt to examine his new body for any clues pointing to how he ended up this way. He didn’t see anything except an awful lot of pale, freckled skin ( _how had he not even been able to get away from the damn freckles in another body?_ ), belatedly realizing his anti-possession tattoo was gone. That was going to be a serious problem if he was stuck this way for any length of time, though certainly not the most pressing problem he was facing.

“Where is my brother?” Sam thundered on the other side of the door, and wow, he sounded furious. “How do you know my name?”

“Sam, calm down, it’s me,” Dean shot back, though he personally didn’t feel very calm.

“Who’s me?”

“Your brother, dumbass! Stop bangin’ on the door; you’re giving me a headache.”

Sam was silent for a moment except for how loudly Dean could hear him thinking, finally demanding, “If you’re Dean, prove it.”

Dean sighed, pulling the shirt back on, sitting on the toilet, and digging his hands into his hair. Sitting just reminded him that there was still pee on his leg, and that he was going to have to figure out how to properly wipe until they could get this reversed. He was pretty sure you couldn’t go back to front from when he used to watch Lisa’s baby niece. Oh god. He was going to have to google it. The thought almost had him on the floor with his head between his knees again.

“When you were eight, Dad left us on a hunt over Christmas,” Dean said at length, crossing his arms over his newly rounded chest and shivering against what seemed to be the unnecessarily cold bathroom. He didn’t care that Sam was a furnace. He was turning up the heat in this place as soon as he calmed down enough to unlock the door. “I promised he was coming back, and when he didn’t, I stole a bunch of presents from a house near our hotel. Only they were all girl presents. You got some kind of Barbie and some cheerleading crap. I still think it was fitting.”

There was another moment of silence, then Sam said, “Dean?”

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

“What the hell Dean?”

“I swear to you Sam, I don’t know.”

“What did you do after I left the bar?”

“Nothing. Sang a couple of songs. Drank with the bartender and the DJ, then came back here.”

“But you were _you_ when you got back. I saw you.”

“That is correct.”

“And you didn’t run into anything between there and here?”

“It’s somethin’ like two blocks. No.”

“Huh.”

“You can say that again.”

There was a pause as Dean heard Sam’s weight land heavy against the door, and after a minute or so, the younger man said, “Nothing at all? I mean, remember that time I got tranq’ed by those kids summoning demons and ended up with a gluten allergy?”

Did Dean ever. He snorted and replied, “The dumbass who switched places with you backed my car into a dumpster. Kinda hard to forget.”

“And there was nothing like that?”

“For the last time, Sam, no.”

“You’re sure you didn’t piss off a witch?” Sam suggested.

“Why do you always assume this kind of crap happens because I piss something off?” Dean snapped.

“Because you normally do.”

“Up yours. And yes, I’m sure I didn’t piss off a witch. I didn’t piss off anyone, no one tranq’ed me, I didn’t drink anything anyone handed me without watching them pour it, and I was still me before I fell asleep. _I don’t know_ what’s going on.”

“Huh. Okay. Well, that’s...okay. We can figure this out. This is our job, right? We can...we can figure this out.”

“You don’t sound very sure about that, Sam.”

“Well excuse me for taking a minute to freak out about my brother swapping bodies with some random woman!”

“Oh, I get the impulse to freak out, believe me.”

“Dean...”

Sam’s little whine didn’t make Dean feel better the way he hoped guilt-tripping his brother would, and he scrubbed a hand over his face, sighing, “I need to take a shower. Go get us breakfast. We can figure this out when I’ve had some caffeine and aspirin.”

“Are you...are you sure?” Sam sounded genuinely uncertain, and it just made the elder Winchester bristle. “Whatever did this might come back.”

“Then I’ll shoot it in the face!” Dean snapped. He _really_ wanted to wash the piss off his leg and...other places.

“Dean, no offense, but you’re kind of on the...dainty side.”

“Just go, Sam!”

With a sigh of his own, Sam went.


	3. Chapter 3

Breakfast was one of the strangest affairs either Winchester had experienced in a long time, which was really saying something. By the time Sam returned with their standard fare, Dean had pulled on one of his flannels, buttoned all the way up to the neck, and rolled up at least five times at the cuffs so the sleeves weren’t hanging down over his hands. He also had a towel wrapped around his head and another around his waist like a skirt, then he couldn’t stop fidgeting with anything having to do with his new body. Both towels kept slipping, requiring readjustments, and Sam was trying awfully hard not to stare at the way his chest jiggled under the flannel as his brother grumbled and fought with the terry cloth. They were hard to ignore when they were so bouncy and right _there_ and Dean clearly didn’t know what to do with himself. Sam wondered what it said about him that he felt much less guilty checking out a nice pair of breasts when they were attached to his brother than when they were attached to a woman and decided it probably pointed to a desperate need for therapy. That was nothing new, though, so he turned to his western omelette and tried to ignore Dean’s increasingly creative swears.

Dean couldn’t begin to eat as much as he normally would, much as he would have liked to try, and so they had plenty of leftovers. It seemed like Sam brought back enough food to feed at least four people, which left Dean pondering with some discomfort whether all of Sam’s teasing that he had a tendency to overeat might not contain a kernel of truth. His clothes didn’t fit of course, even after he’d pulled his belt buckle over all the way it would go and rolled up the hem of his pants at least half a dozen times. The neck of his tee-shirt gaped whenever he bent over, and that was a pretty serious problem when he didn’t have a bra, leading him to his improvised outfit of a flannel and towel skirt. On the plus side, he’d had a lot of fun exploring his new parts while Sam was gone and he was in the shower. It occurred to him that was probably invasive, but for all he knew Mac was doing the same thing. Hell, _no one_ would be blamed for thoroughly assessing the differences between men and women in his situation, and whoever switched the two of them shouldn’t have done so without accounting for Dean’s natural curiosity.

That’s _if_ Mac was walking around in his body, which wasn’t actually a given. He was trying not to think about the possibility that his body was just gone as Sam fired up his laptop to figure out where they could get him clothes that fit. Neither of them had a clue how women’s sizes worked, beyond the numbers having no basis in actual measurements and, as far as they could tell, being randomly assigned. They both knew women were happier when they fit in smaller sizes, but that didn’t help them in any practical sense.

They found a thrift shop, Second Chance Clothing, which only got them so far when Dean didn’t have any underwear and couldn’t try on any clothes without it. There was a lingerie store north of town called the Silk Emporium that left them playing three high stakes rounds of rock, paper, scissors to see who was going to have to make the run, despite Dean’s obvious lack of clothing being the purpose of the shopping trip to begin with. Dean beat Sam handily, the second time in as many months, leaving his younger brother wondering if maybe Dean had been letting him win all his life as he grumbled his way out to the car to go buy the elder Winchester some panties.

Sam succeeded in finding underwear. He did not succeed in finding bras. He was too embarrassed when he returned with a bag carrying a variety of styles and sizes to explain _why_ he didn’t succeed in finding bras. He’d also stopped at the second-hand store and picked up a handful of dresses and shoes in varying sizes, thinking those would be easier to start with so he could at least take Dean _back_ to the lingerie store where he could be properly, um, measured. The only shoes that fit were a pair of sling-back heels and the dresses ran the gamut from flimsy to matronly. Dean seriously contemplated murdering his brother as he clung to Sam’s arm to make it to the car without breaking an ankle, his unbridled breasts jiggling in a way that was undoubtedly appealing but certainly didn’t feel very good. Unfortunately, he doubted he had the upper body strength required to bury someone Sam-sized, and besides, he was going to need Sam’s help just to walk if they couldn’t find other shoes.

“We should call Cas,” Sam suggested as he drove them to the lingerie store. Dean couldn’t reach the pedals without sliding the seat so far forward Sam wouldn’t fit in the car and was sulking against the passenger door holding his coat closed. The dress that best fit him was a thin, summerly shift, and he didn’t need his nipples broadcasting how cold he was when the blobs of fat on his chest were already tender and uncomfortable.

“And have him do what, exactly?” Dean demanded, leaning over to turn up the blower so there would actually be some heat in the car. He couldn’t wait for the day to start warming up. His toes felt like ice and his fingers weren’t much better. “He’s not going to be able to switch me back when we don’t know what did this yet. I don’t need him staring at me with that look he gets. Plus, he’s been acting weird lately.”

“Isn’t he always kind of weird?”

“Weirder than usual.”

“What about Rowena? I know she’s not exactly an ally, but she could tell us right away if it was a witch.”

“So she can laugh? No thank you.”

“That only leaves us Crowley.”

“I’d rather die.”

“Wow. Female you is even more dramatic than normal you.”

The punch Dean threw at Sam’s arm was in no way satisfying, as it really only hurt his hand and made his brother laugh.

Mac turned out to be a 34DD, which Dean took a strange sort of pride in until they’d been at the library for a couple of hours looking through death records for their potential Weeping Woman. He never could have imagined how uncomfortable the shoulder straps on bras would be from having to hold up that much weight on such a small frame or how frequently he’d need to adjust himself - something he wasn’t very good at doing subtly. He should have listened to the sales associate who measured him when she recommended he go with the thicker straps on the ugly beige bra that looked like it belonged to somebody’s grandmother. He was man enough to admit the error of his ways, at least to himself, since the thin straps on the padded push-up he’d settled on were leaving deep red welts and Sam was showing no sympathy. The underwire was also really starting to dig into his ribs, as was the front-hook closure he’d had to buy since he couldn’t manage the little hooks and eyes in the back. Between all his fussing and Sam needing to remind him to sit with his knees together, it wasn’t surprising that Dean was attracting a lot of attention, much to his brother’s chagrin.

The Feathered Coyote wouldn’t be open until two, giving them a chance to have lunch after finding a couple of likely candidates for the La Llorna in the newspaper archives. Maria Velez’s children died in a house fire while Emily Strands’ were killed in a car accident. Both mothers were also dead, but they’d need to dig a little deeper into their histories to determine who fit the profile better. Maybe if they were lucky, one of them had been cremated. Then again, it could be neither of them, and they’d be back to square one. Since the Truth or Consequences police had taken the initiative to post additional signs along the Rio Grande prohibiting swimming, they’d hopefully have some time to find not only the culprit and where she was buried but what was wrong with Dean.

The elder Winchester waited in the car while Sam went into the Feathered Coyote to ask the bartender about Mac and her karaoke business. It wasn’t difficult to convince him Sam was looking for entertainment for an upcoming high school reunion thanks to his dimples and the first strands of grey at his temples that Dean wouldn’t let him live down. The DJ herself, Mac Awi, was new, though the company she worked for - Encore Karaoke - had been around since karaoke first hit the States in the ‘90s. The man who ran their standing Thursday night event was an old Mescalero Apache from down in Alamogordo who looked to be at least eighty years old, so it wasn’t much of a surprise when Mac took over for him. Where she came from or how she met the Apache he couldn’t say, though he was happy to hand over her business card with only a phone number, no address, saying he should tell Mac that Phil recommended her.

The phone number took them to a voicemail for the company but gave no further clue to where Mac lived and was officially their first dead end. Dean wasn’t happy about it, though it wasn’t exactly the worst thing that could happen when they needed to hunt down the La Llorna anyway. The Strands and Valez families both still lived in town so they still had work to do. Despite being several generations removed from the children’s deaths, tragedies of that nature tended to get passed down in family histories, like grandma’s china, and it was worth talking to them regardless. They just needed to get Dean something more professional to wear than a paisley spaghetti strap dress and shoes he couldn’t walk in so the families would believe their cover story of researching a book on grief and depression after the death of a child.

It was easier to stop in at a little shop downtown that sold a wide range of women’s clothing now that Dean was wearing proper undergarments. He was getting better at walking with his knees together, too, so he didn’t look quite as much like a linebacker, marveling at how different life was for people without bowed legs. He still had to cling to Sam’s arm though ( _practicing walking around the car while his brother was in the bar only helped so much_ ), and that got them some strange looks from the saleslady as he wobbled his way through the door of That Feminine Mystique. 

Their goal of making it a quick in and out fell flat on its face as soon as Dean took his selections into the changing room while Sam waited obediently on the little bench outside. Dean was tired of the breeze catching him unawares and opted to get some pants and a nice, plain blouse, guessing at the sizes based on the tag in his sundress. They’d already managed to find a pair of simple black ballerina flats for him, which was better than making Dean totter around like a newborn foal, even if he now barely came up to Sam’s bicep. It _would_ be Dean’s luck to switch bodies with a midget.

Despite the packaging, Sam never would have doubted it was Dean trying on pants and blouses with the steady stream of quiet swearing coming from the inside of the dressing room. The furious rustling of fabric, as if the clothes he’d taken in with him were somehow personally offensive, was also distinctly Dean. Sam could feel his brother’s mounting irritation infesting the entire store, shooting apologetic glances to the other women browsing the clothing racks every time a particularly colorful word escaped from the other side of the door. The only thing that kept him from asking if Dean needed help was his deep desire to see his next birthday.

“Goddammit!” Dean finally barked before the very distinct sound of a hanger hitting the door and more agitated rustling. Sam watched him shuffle out of the pants he was trying on like an angry toddler, the portion of Dean’s legs visible under the door more than adequate in conveying his frustration. A moment later, he slammed the door open and stormed out in his dress and no shoes, slapping a pair of pants against Sam’s chest as he snapped, “Hold onto these; they’re the only thing that fit. Don’t let anyone have my spot. I need more shirts.”

“None of those fit?” Sam asked of the half dozen blouses bunched up on the floor.

“No, Sam, none of those fit,” Dean growled. For all his talk of Sam owning the patent on bitchfaces, Dean had somehow managed to invent a whole new bitchface level. “The ones that fit my shoulders won’t close without a gap, and the ones that close without a gap don’t fit my shoulders. I might as well wear one of my own shirts.”

“A gap?”

“Between my boobs, Sam. These things are ridiculous. They strain the buttonhole, and I end up with a gap so everyone can see my bra! I don’t know how women put up with them.” At the sight of his younger brother struggling not to laugh, Dean growled, “You’re an ass,” and stormed off. The other shoppers wisely decided it was time to mind their own business.


	4. Chapter 4

The ultimately successful shopping trip shouldn’t have been the highlight of their day. Had they known it would be, Dean might have tried to enjoy it more once he found a nice, light sweater that went perfectly with his new slacks and flats and had somewhat correctly nailed down his sizes. It certainly seemed like things were looking up, but Dean didn’t want to spend any more time in a dressing room than necessary, so they left with only two outfits and a couple pairs of trouser socks and shoes. This whole situation might be tolerable while they figured out how to get Dean his body back, if Dean’s lack of complaining on the way back to the motel could be taken at face value. Then as Sam was in the process of changing into a button-down and khakis while Dean freshened up in the bathroom, he heard a strangled shriek, even worse than he’d heard that morning. His heart plummeted into his feet as he raced to the bathroom to see what was wrong, finding his brother sitting on the toilet in abject horror, his new pants laying across his lap.

“What?” Sam demanded, breathless from fear and not the quick sprint across the motel room. “What, Dean, what’s wrong?”

“I…”

Dean’s face turned bright red, redder in Mac’s skin than Sam had ever seen, and he looked seriously like he was going to throw up. In which case, Sam couldn’t figure out why he was still sitting on the toilet when he might need it in a second.

“You...what?”

“Sam…”

“ _What_?”

“I...uh…”

“You...uh…what?” His brother just continued to stare at him, lower lip clenched so tightly between his straight white teeth it was a wonder he hadn’t drawn blood. After a morning of shuttling Dean from one women’s clothing store to the next at the expense of getting any work done for their actual case, it was a bit more than Sam could take and he snapped, “You what, Dean? Jesus, I went out and bought you panties this morning, I think I can handle anything at this point! Just spit it out already!”

“I...need...stuff,” Dean choked, forcing the words out of his mouth.

“Stuff?” Sam huffed. “Can you please be more specific?”

“Stuff. That...uh...women need. And men don’t.”

The budding horror on Sam’s face as it gradually dawned on him what his brother meant would have made Dean laugh were he not currently praying the floor opened up and swallowed him whole, toilet and all.

“You mean, like…” 

Sam wanted to tell Dean to move because _he_ might need to throw up, but with how ill his brother looked, he didn’t have the heart.

“Yeah.”

“Huh.”

“ _That’s_ what you’ve got to say about this, Sam?! _Huh_?!”

“No! I mean...yes! I mean...doesn’t this seem like a bit much to you?”

The fury on Dean’s face was a sight to behold, and if Sam was thinking clearly he’d probably have taken advantage of his brother being stuck on the toilet and quietly backed away from the bathroom door. Unfortunately, his brain had kicked into gear and now he couldn’t stop wondering what it might mean that Dean was experiencing so many of the unique annoyances of womanhood in a very short amount of time.

“Yes, Sam,” Dean snarled through clenched teeth. “Now that you mention it, this _does_ seem like ‘a bit much.’”

“Look, Dean, all I’m saying is…” Sam took a second to duck as Dean’s travel kit came flying at his head. Under different circumstances, he’d gloat about his brother throwing like a girl no one ever taught to properly throw, but no one looking at Dean like this would be so callous. “This might be a clue!”

“A clue?” Dean scoffed, sounding thoroughly unconvinced.

“Yes, a clue! To whoever or whatever did this! Think about it. First, you wake up in the body of a woman you barely spoke to last night and who you say you didn’t insult.”

“I _didn’t_!”

“Fine, I believe you, but still! It then turns out she’s not only petite but busty, so she’s incredibly difficult to find clothes for, and now the second we get back to the motel you get her...monthly...thing.” 

“I’m aware of how this day has progressed, Sam. Thank you.”

“What I mean is that if this were...I don’t know, a TV show, _this_ is the point where the audience would go, ‘oh, come _on_ ,’ right? _This_ would be too much for anyone to believe is just a coincidence as opposed to someone trying to…”

“Screw with me?” Dean suggested bitterly. “Ruin my life? Leave me with mental scars I’ll have to live with until the day I die?”

“Whoa, slow down there Cher Horowitz,” Sam said, ducking his own toiletry bag next. He had to wonder if Mac’s hormones were impacting his brother’s mood at all and was far too intelligent to voice that aloud.

“You have no idea how pissed off I am right now that I can never rag on you for knowing the characters in _Clueless_ without being reminded of this moment!” Dean roared, officially signaling that Sam had pushed his brother far enough for one bathroom encounter.

“I can make a run to the pharmacy,” Sam soothed, even if he did want to talk more about this sudden, drastic development. “What...uh...what do you want me to get?”

“Like _I_ know!” Dean snapped, and Sam had to admit, that had been a stupid question. “Just... _something_ or I’m not leaving this bathroom until all of _this_ …” He gestured vaguely in the direction of his lap and blanched. “...is done!”

“Okay, I’ll just...I’ll call you from the store,” Sam said, shoving his feet into his shoes without even bothering with socks. He left Dean sitting miserably on the john as he fumbled for his wallet and the keys and vacated the premises.

As soon as they got this taken care of, Sam was calling someone. Maybe Rowena to find out if this _was_ something witchy despite Dean’s insistence he hadn’t upset the real Mac. Or maybe he’d get Jody on the phone instead, someone who had the biology to deal with this without panicking. Maybe he should call her _ahead_ of hitting up the pharmacy since surely she could talk him through what he might need to bring back to his brother. Then again, Dean might kill him if he sought advice without at least trying to tackle the feminine hygiene issue on his own. But how the hell was he supposed to know what to get his brother for his first...Christ...period without worrying it would send Dean off the rails? Amelia had mercifully never sent him for supplies, and he still remembered the threat Dean leveled should he ever bring Lisa up again. With no real practical experience between them or at least none that was open for discussion, they were going to need help from someone who actually dealt with this on a regular basis. What else might they run into if Dean was a woman for more than a few hours? Would he get cramps? Headaches? If he was unreasonably cranky ( _more than he’d just been_ ), did Sam need to just suck it up and deal, or was he allowed to ask if Dean needed something like Midol? Did they even _make_ Midol anymore? Sam wasn’t broaching any of those subjects until he was back from the store and Dean felt like he could leave the bathroom, not with the contents of their shaving kits strewn all over the motel room, but they still needed to talk about them.

Dean would actually have been happy to never leave the bathroom, inconvenient as being stuck in a bathroom was to functioning like a normal human being, nor to ever discuss what was happening to him. In fact, he would have been happy to drop this whole hunt, turn over everything they had to other hunters, and refocus entirely on finding the woman walking around in his body. The whole novelty of suddenly having breasts had worn off pretty quickly after the shower when he needed a bra, and now that he couldn’t get dressed from the waist down without ruining his brand new underwear and pants, he _really_ wasn’t enamored with his new vagina and all the fancy parts attached to it. He’d been holding it together all morning so Sam wouldn’t see how genuinely worried he was, but this was really getting out of hand. He hadn’t even been a woman for twelve hours yet and he didn’t think he could take much more.

It wasn’t just looking down into the bowl to make sure he wiped properly and finding it full of blood, though that had certainly thrown him for a loop. While he would grudgingly admit that Sam was right and he still had a tendency to run his mouth on occasion and piss off a bad guy, he _truly_ hadn’t done _anything_ the night before. Well, that wasn’t true. He’d slaughtered Aerosmith and turned down a really hot chick for a night of no-strings-attached sex, but _plenty_ of people got up to sing who couldn’t carry a tune even if it had handles, and Mac hadn’t been offended when he turned her down, he was sure of it. If anything, she looked like she pitied him. He hadn’t even gotten blackout drunk, so no one could have slipped the two of them anything to _Freaky Friday_ their asses. With their only lead going straight to voicemail and an active case on their plate, he was starting to actually get scared. There might be a time limit on this thing and his ability to get his own body back would be gone before they could even begin to figure it out.

He was beginning to get lost in the endless list of morose thoughts that usually played on a loop in his head any time he allowed himself to think when his phone rang, and he jolted hard enough to whack his elbow on the sink. His body decided to let out another ‘sploosh’ of liquid as he was reaching for his cell, and that was...that was just so disturbing he needed to collect himself before he could answer the call. Stitching up bullet holes and re-setting dislocated shoulders he could do. Bleeding from his brand new lady bits? He didn’t know how women could stand it. He’d only been doing it about half an hour and he was thoroughly over it.

“Yeah?” he said after checking the caller ID and seeing it was just Sam. God, they hadn’t even talked about what they were going to do if someone needed to get a hold of them. He officially couldn’t answer his phone until they figured this out.

“ _I...uh...I need a little guidance_ ,” Sam told him. Dean could tell just by his voice how badly he was blushing. Served him right for all his ‘ _this might be a clue_ ’ crap.

“Not sure I can give you much, but shoot,” Dean sighed, closing his eyes and wishing he were tall enough to bang his head into the wall behind him while still seated until he just passed out. Though that would leave him on the floor without any way to contain the...bleeding...and god, he should have brought his gun into the bathroom so he could shoot himself.

“ _So I...uh...I’m in the aisle with the...stuff, and there’s...there’s a_ **_lot_** _of it, so I guess I need to know your preferences._ ”

“My preferences?”

“ _Yeah, or...maybe what you think would make you feel comfortable? I mean...some of these have plastic applicators, and some have cardboard applicators, and there are ones with_ ** _no_** _applicator. And then do I get you the regular ones or the super absorbent or…_ ”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, just hang on a minute, Sam. Are you looking at…” Despite being alone in the bathroom, Dean couldn’t stop from dropping the volume of his voice. “... _tampons_?”

There was an exceedingly long, terribly awkward pause before his brother said, “ _Yeah…?_ ” God help him, for as smart as Sam was, Dean had no idea how he’d ever gotten a full ride at Stanford. “ _Dean?_ ”

“Sam,” Dean finally said, ever so patiently, “what makes you think that for my very first and god-willing, only... _thing_ , I would be planning to shove something up there that I can’t be sure I can get back out?”

The second pause was not as long, but Dean still noted the embarrassment in Sam’s voice when he said, “ _There are even more options for the other stuff_.”

“Christ.”

“ _Look, Dean, I’m sorry, but Jess only ever used tampons_ …”

“It’s _fine_ , Sam, it’s _fine_. Just...I don’t know, grab a couple of different ones. The other stuff, _not_ the tampons. I don’t really care what kind as long as they don’t make me look like I’m wearin’ a diaper.”

“ _Should I...should I get the ones with wings?_ _Why do they need wings?_ ”

“I would know that because?”

“ _Oh, wait, it looks like maybe you wrap them around to...uh...prevent leaks_.”

“Good enough for me. Grab some different kinds of those ones and get back here before my ass falls asleep.”

“ _Okay_.”

Mercifully, Sam hung up the phone, and Dean was left to wallow in peace. Once he got over this humiliation, he’d suggest they look into monsters that were involved in blood rituals or...Jesus, he didn’t even know what. What he _did_ know was he wasn’t getting stuck like this. No matter what he had to do - have sex with an old lady, run around town naked, drown a litter of kittens ( _which he would feel terrible about, but dammit, he’d do it!_ ) - Dean was getting his body back.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year everyone! Also, shameless plug for my fix-it fic, go read it if you hated the finale. You may hate the fix-it as well, but at least they survive.

Dean had been stuck in Mac’s body for a week, and Sam was starting to get desperate. After the second time Dean woke up to discover he had “leaked” while he slept, it was clear they needed help, whether the elder Winchester was in danger of dying from mortification or not. Once Jody got done telling Alex and Claire about his predicament and they’d all had a good laugh, she gave him some helpful tips on the kinds of pads he should be wearing and how often he should change them since apparently, Mac Awi was “a bleeder.” She also gave him some other basic hygiene tips he refused to discuss with Sam and assured him that he could call back if anything else came up. She even promised not to laugh. Much.

They’d wrapped up the Weeping Woman case days ago, the culprit being neither Maria Velez nor Emily Strands. Mercedes DuBois left her twin toddlers alone in the bathtub while she answered the door, and by the time she’d shooed away the traveling magazine salesman, both children had drowned. She hadn’t been happy about Sam digging up her grave to salt and burn her remains, and that’s how the brothers discovered the standard stock on their double-barrel shotgun was too long for a five-foot-four-inch woman to effectively use it if aiming was a priority. Dean managed to dispel the spirit trying to strangle his brother, but he also spent twenty minutes picking rock salt out of Sam’s neck.

They finally caved and called Cas as well, who showed up to study Dean and declared whatever caused the body swap was something very powerful, much more powerful than a witch. It was a conclusion they’d already arrived at since nothing happening to Dean pointed to a curse, only something with a twisted sense of humor. It saved them at least from contacting Rowena, which Dean agreed to only if Cas thought she could help. Unfortunately, the angel couldn’t track down Dean’s body because of the warding carved into his ribs, but he was able to tell them it hadn’t been dumped in a ditch somewhere. Dean’s soul was still partially tethered to his physical form, just not strongly enough for Cas to follow the thread. 

Things got a bit dodgy when they asked if Cas remembered anything from his time married to a woman that could help them navigate any issues that might pop up for the elder Winchester. They’d already gotten a handle on the pads vs. tampons conundrum and discovered Mac Awi was allergic to Nair, leaving Dean with a lot more to shave, but the angel had no idea what marriage they were talking about. Dean’s arched eyebrows were a clear, “I told you something’s weird with him” to his brother, who agreed with an exasperated sigh and frustrated nod. Dean was also sure Cas kept leering at his breasts, though it was possible he was simply as befuddled as they were. The best he could do was offer a sweep of the nearby area to see if he got lucky and spotted the DJ wearing Dean’s skin. That was before they learned about Mercedes, and now they were at the end of the week with nothing to show for it.

Staying in town so long after closing a case went against one of the top rules ingrained in them since they were children. Once the monster was finished, they packed up and shipped out before any witnesses came forward that might have noticed them burning something that looked suspiciously like a dead person. It set them both on edge and had them snapping at each other as they slowly came to the conclusion that they just couldn’t stay. Dean’s reluctance to leave Truth or Consequences without his own body was understandable, but after a week in their hotel room and no real leads, they couldn’t risk holing up any longer. Besides, they had a whole treasure trove of lore back at the bunker that they weren’t taking advantage of. As long as Cas could still sense the tether, there was no reason to spin their wheels in New Mexico.

Spinning their wheels in the bunker wasn’t much better, though, and heading back home was probably a mistake. They’d lived on the outskirts of Lebanon long enough now for everyone in town to know them. There were just over two hundred residents, and the Winchesters weren’t exactly the kind of men who would go unnoticed with such a small population. When they got back and Sam stopped in at the Tacky Bear Bar with a petite redhead instead of Dean, news quickly spread. By the next day when he ran to the co-op to restock the pantry, talk of him and the little spitfire who beat him at pool was everywhere.

Everyone wanted to know who Sam’s new friend was and if they should expect to see more of her. It was actually disconcerting to discover the residents of Lebanon routinely gossiped about him and Dean and that there were even some pretty high stakes bets on whether the two of them were _really_ brothers. That explained why he was getting so many dirty looks when he paid for his produce and why Marta at the Post Office was so chatty with him. Typically she shot him death glares, but if she thought Dean was an eligible bachelor again ( _even if she was old enough to be their mother_ ), apparently she didn’t mind Sam at all.

Dean wasn’t sure whether to feel proud of the town thinking his little brother had hooked up with someone as hot as Mac or appalled that people _still_ thought they were a couple. Not that Sam could do much better than someone with Dean’s looks and charm, but it was annoying they’d somehow not moved past that misconception now that they’d outgrown their boyish looks and were more rugged and mature. Regardless, it was clearly better if he stayed hidden in the bunker than having to come up with some kind of elaborate backstory to how he knew Sam and where Sam’s brother was, particularly when he needed to do some practicing with their slate of weapons. Beyond discovering the problem with the shotguns, he’d been shocked at how heavy and awkward his Colt was now that he had little hands and scrawny wrists. He decided relatively quickly that he’d have to call Jody and ask for some pointers on compensating for his new musculature.

Jody no longer found the situation funny when he got her on the phone about exactly that. She fully expected they’d have fixed the problem already, and while she was happy to offer advice, it wasn’t as simple as giving him tips on how to handle the kickback. She’d spent years training with the Sheriff’s Department to perform at the level of her male peers, and sometimes training alone didn’t cut it. If his hands were too small now to comfortably handle his sidearm, no amount of training would make them bigger. He’d have to find a gun he could fire and train with that until it was as much of an extension of his arm as his Colt. It would also probably take months to build up the arm strength needed to decapitate a vampire or bash in a ghoul’s head. Their compound crossbows had a 70-pound draw weight, twice what he could reasonably pull now, so quiet, distance kills would be harder to pull off - literally. She suggested he come up to Sioux Falls so she could give him some proper training and nearly browbeat him into promising they wouldn’t take any cases outside of his until he was himself again. It was just too dangerous.

Sam missed the whole discussion, coming back in from a run in time to stop Dean from hanging up so he could ask Jody to access any national missing persons databases available to her. Almost three weeks had passed, so if Mac had any family or friends, surely they’d have reported her missing by now. They hadn’t. In fact, the only person named “Awi” missing in the entire U.S. was a ten-year-old boy in Hawaii. That was the state with over ninety-five percent of the Awis throughout the country, which was more than a little strange when the redheaded woman housing Dean definitely didn’t look Hawaiian.

“What if it’s not her name?” Sam suggested as Dean was busy working his way through a bottle of scotch after finding out about their latest dead end. He knew Dean was going stir crazy in the bunker, and if they couldn’t figure this out soon, he was finding them a salt and burn just to get his brother above ground.

“Huh?” Dean asked as the table swam in front of him. He’d been trying to work up his body’s tolerance to alcohol and hadn’t gotten very far yet.

“Mac Awi. Sure, it could be a married name I guess, but maybe it’s an alias, or an anagram or something,” Sam replied as he quickly jotted the letters down onto his notepad and began to move them around. “Like that death omen back in…”

“Baltimore. Surprised you remember that.” Dean grabbed his own notebook and began to scramble the letters around as well. “Amiwac. Wicmia. Camwii. Start googling and see if anything hits.”

“No, I’m getting nothing here. It thinks I mean Amivac, Wichita, Camwii doesn’t exist. Hang on. There’s gotta be a program that’ll run the possibilities quicker than doing it by hand.”

There was. It kicked back twenty-five possibilities, only one of which made any sense, and even then, it didn’t make sense. ‘I Macaw’ turned up no hits on the world wide web, though for a few hopeful seconds, they thought they might be looking for a pet store.

“Maybe it’s one word,” Dean said around the lip of his tumbler once Sam had resorted to pulling his hair.

“One word?” his brother echoed, watching Dean stumble a little as he drained the rest of his glass. Sam didn’t hesitate to use his freakishly long arms to snag the scotch from the other side of the table and put the cap back on, much to Dean’s displeasure.

“Yeah. Type it in. M-A-C-A-W-I. See what comes up.”

After weeks of spinning their wheels, they finally got a lead, Sam perking up immediately in his chair.

“It’s a girl’s name,” he said, Dean coming to stand at his shoulder to read the blurry text. “Native American origin, specifically the Sioux tribe. It means female coyote, motherly.”

“Coyote. Like the bar we were at. Maybe she’s related to skinwalkers? Instead of shifting her own shape, she steals someone else’s?”

“It’s a thought. Though I’ve never heard of skinwalkers that can do that.”

“It’s the first _real_ thought we’ve had.”

“Hello, Sam. Dean.”

Dean was proud of himself for having no alcohol left in his glass to spill at Castiel’s arrival, especially when Sam knocked over the bottle of scotch and found he hadn’t quite screwed the cap on tight. Dean would have laughed as Sam scrambled to save his laptop, only he really hated it when Cas just popped in on them. He especially hated it now with the way Cas was staring at his chest again, regretting that he’d taken off his bra as his Metallica tee-shirt wasn’t quite large enough to hide his reaction to the steady sixty-eight degrees of the climate-controlled bunker.

“Cas, hey,” Sam said, compelled by the way Cas was leering to step just a little between the angel and his brother. “You find something?”

“Yes and no,” Cas replied airily. The Winchesters bristled at how casual he sounded but let him continue. “I can still feel the connection between Dean’s body and his essence, but it’s changed. As if there’s a third essence mixed in with his and this poor, pitiful woman.”

The way he leaned around Sam to raise an eyebrow at Dean was disconcerting, to say the least, and Sam puffed out his chest. Not that there was anything they could do to stop Cas from staring, but his fluctuating grace seemed to be causing some very odd personality changes in their resident angel. That raised another question in Dean’s alcohol-addled brain.

“How’d you get past the warding when you’re running on a low battery?” he asked, swaying forward enough to set down his glass before crossing his arms over his double Ds.

“I...don’t know,” Cas replied. “I just did. Perhaps it needs reinforcing. At any rate, I wanted to share what I sensed with you in case you felt anything strange. With the third soul involved, it is easier to determine at least generally where Dean’s body is.”

“And?” the brothers demanded at once.

“It’s still in New Mexico.”


	6. Chapter 6

The first thing they did when they reached Truth or Consequences was head back to the Feathered Coyote to ask the bartender if he’d seen Dean’s body. He had, though Phil couldn’t say where he was now. As it turned out, the Thursday after they left town, “Dean” was the one running the karaoke machine and became something of an instant regular. He was very popular and brought a lot more women into the bar than usual, always leaving with one on his arm. 

He’d run karaoke a second Thursday as well, and even though he was going through women like toilet paper, Phil hoped he stayed because he was great for business. Phil wasn’t sure what made Mac decide to pass the gig off to Dean, but he couldn’t thank her enough and suggested they come back for a drink later since Dean would probably be there around nine. Not that he’d necessarily stay long, depending on how quickly he found someone to go home with. Phil didn’t notice as he winked at Sam that Mac looked slightly ill, not even when he reminded her how much people loved it when the DJ paid attention to them.

“So okay, not what we were expecting, but you can’t really blame her for wanting to take the new car for a test ride,” Sam said as they sat at a stoplight with his brother staring out the window. He knew it was the wrong thing to say, but Dean hadn’t spoken since they left the bar, and if the only way to get him to talk was by picking a fight, Sam would rise to the challenge. “It’s not like you’re a blushing virgin or anything.”

“Not the point, Sam,” Dean growled. Even turned away, Sam could see the flush spreading up his neck and decided to press the issue before he clammed up again.

“Look, I know you’ve pretty much been on lockdown since this whole thing started, but do you expect me to believe you haven’t been at _all_ tempted to see how the other half feels?”

“Got that out of the way on day one, by myself, haven’t bothered since. Once I started bleeding, the appeal wore off pretty quick.”

“Well, then, there you go.”

“ _No_ , Sam, I figured she’d test the new plumbing too, and that’s fine. Why wouldn’t she? She’s never had all that equipment before; I’d expect her to see how it all works. But it’s never crossed my mind to test _her_ equipment out with _other people_! We need to figure out what she is so I can get my body back before I end up with herpes or syphilis.”

“You really think she’s out there having rampant unprotected sex?”

“Why not? It’s not _her_ body, is it? She doesn’t have to worry about the long term consequences!”

“We don’t know that.”

“What?”

“We don’t know that she doesn’t have to worry about the long term consequences.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Dean, _nothing_ we’ve learned so far, which right now is surprisingly little, points to her planning to give your body back. We have to stop assuming this is temporary.” Dean had fallen silent again, only this time he was staring at Sam instead of out the window, his eyes wide and dewy. It wasn’t an improvement from him acting like Sam didn’t exist. “Look, all I’m saying is that until we have _any_ kind of idea what we’re dealing with, I don’t think we have to worry about her being reckless with you. It’s far more likely that she intends to keep the car and not just take it for a joy ride.”

“Well,” Dean choked after too long of a silence. “You sure know how to make a guy feel better, Sammy.”

“I just mean not to imagine the worst,” Sam replied as gently as he could without getting punched in the arm for coddling his brother. “We shouldn’t panic if this takes us a little longer to figure out.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Dean told him. “You don’t have to worry about whether you’re suddenly going to start bleeding again.”

“You know that happens at regular intervals, right? That’s why it’s called a cycle.”

“You know that isn’t true for everyone, right? Only twenty percent of women have their... _thing_ like clockwork every twenty-eight days!”

“ _What_? How could you _possibly_ know that?”

“News flash, Sam, you’re not the only one who can do research. Now please stop talking before I have to kill myself.”

Sam did, gladly, so thrown by the idea of his brother googling women’s health issues that if he gave it any thought, he’d end up crashing the car. Dean was back to glaring out the window anyway; his coat pulled tightly closed across his chest like armor as he tried to ignore the pit forming in his stomach. He could only hope Sam didn’t bring up the liberties currently being taken with his body over lunch. Dean barely had an appetite as it was, and he’d be damned if he was going to let Sam spoil his comfort dessert.

Since they were at the busiest diner in town and it wasn’t like Truth or Consequences was a booming metropolis, Sam decided to ruin lunch by whipping out a photo of his brother and asking the waitress if she’d seen Dean around. Boy had she ever. Not that she was someone who kissed and told, but she truly was sorry he wasn’t looking for anything long-term given his stamina and the things he could do with his tongue. Her understanding was that he lived an hour away in Las Cruces at the Sun Ridge Valley Apartments, which is why they’d gone back to her place. Sam finally cut off the conversation and asked for the check once she’d started staring off into space and Dean was gripping his butter knife like a weapon. At least she offered to give them the number he’d slipped her if they promised to mention that Loraine sure would like to see him again.

The phone number went to voicemail. It was profoundly disturbing for both Winchesters to hear Dean’s voice sounding downright perky on the outgoing message. They hung up after the beep, not wanting to tip their hand to being in town. If “Dean” was planning to make his nightly visit to the Feathered Coyote, they sure as hell weren’t going to dissuade him.

While the bar was packed at a two-to-one female to male ratio, “Dean” did not show up; or at least not while the Winchesters were there. Granted, they had to leave before closing, so he might have swung by late in the evening, not that the brothers would ever know for sure. Their plan to stake out a corner table and lurk lasted a good several hours before Dean had to get up to use the Ladies’ room and instead found himself plunked down on the lap of a rather burly blond at the bar, quite without his approval.

“Mac, sweetheart!” Blondie cooed, the arm he’d curled around Dean’s waist tightening as he dragged Dean’s petite body against his chest. “Phil said you gave up the karaoke and skipped town. This must be my lucky night.”

“Yeah, I’m just passing through, so…” Dean snapped, suppressing the urge to throw the guy’s drink in his face when his hand wandered down to Dean’s hip. His first instinct was to punch him of course, but he knew he’d probably just break his fingers and with how badly he needed to pee, involving liquid was a bad idea. Blondie didn’t get the hint.

“Oh, come on,” he said, his other arm winding up around Dean’s ribs to tickle along his spine. “We had such a good time. And I just got some vibrating nipple clamps.”

Dean shoved hard enough to unseat himself, the man not expecting it, landing on the tacky barroom floor with a squawk. He did manage to slap away Blondie’s hand when he reached to help Dean up, righting himself with as much dignity as possible even though he was pretty sure his left breast was half out of its cup. The pressing need to empty his bladder was mercifully gone, and suddenly Sam was in his space before the guy could do anything else.

“You okay?” Sam demanded as Dean quickly brushed himself off and adjusted himself until he felt safely contained in his bra again. He was getting much better at doing it subtly.

“Oh, I see how it is.” Sam hadn’t really noticed the guy who tried to help Dean up, but now that he was looking, he didn’t like the glint in the man’s eye as his gaze roved over the pair of them. “Well, we could always share her.”

“Excuse me?” Sam sputtered, Dean’s hand already on his wrist to drag him out of the bar.

“You’re a tease, Mac!” the guy shouted after them with a laugh as they burst out into the parking lot, Dean visibly shaken by the encounter. He dropped Sam’s wrist as he made straight for the Impala, wrapping his arms around his ribs to ward off the cold. He really needed to get back to the motel to take a shower and scrub his mind clear of the image of Blondie and vibrating nipple clamps.

“Dean, we can’t leave without our coats,” Sam said as reasonably as he could, given how upset his brother clearly was. 

“You can get them, I’m not going back in there,” Dean said flatly, and Sam didn’t push. 

Dean almost wished he had when a short man with dark hair shouted across the parking lot, “Hey Mac! Baby, where you been?”

“I have bear mace and I’ll use it!” Dean shouted back, doubting he could just shoot someone in a parking lot, even in New Mexico.

“Someone’s on the rag,” the guy muttered, causing Dean to reevaluate shooting him.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” Sam said, scaring the crap out of his brother as he shoved Dean’s coat into his arms. Somewhere along the way, Sam had picked up some serious ninja skills. “Mac seems to be a real favorite of the locals.”

“Great,” Dean muttered. “Apparently whatever we’re after is some kind of nymphomaniac. You still think I don’t need to worry about catching herpes?”

Sam, wisely, said very little for the remainder of the night and into the next day, focusing clinically on the case as they drove down to Las Cruces after breakfast. Sun Ridge Valley had two hundred units, according to Apartments.com, and they were in silent agreement to knocking on all two hundred doors if that’s what it took to find the thing walking around inside the elder Winchester. After the disaster at the Feathered Coyote, it seemed like the better move to try ambushing the unknown creature wearing Dean at its apartment rather than the middle of a bar where both “Dean” and Mac were trying to sleep their way through the entire customer base.

The sign on the office said the manager was out showing apartments and would be right back. After waiting almost an hour in their Fed suits to flash Dean’s picture, they headed out to implement their door-to-door plan. Picking the main entry locks took no time at all and went a long way towards convincing them never to get an apartment in a complex as they went from one ten-unit building to the next. By the time they were knocking on the ninety-third door, they were rethinking the whole thing. Half the residents weren’t home, and those that were didn’t recognize Dean’s photo. Besides striking out, they’d also been attacked by three chihuahuas and a particularly nasty little dachshund. So far, Sun Ridge Valley was looking like a total bust.

It was door ninety-four that finally got them somewhere. A little old man with long white braids and skin as tanned as leather opened the door, spotted Dean’s new body, looked like he was going to have a heart attack, and slammed the door shut again. Sam left his brother to pound on the door with his tiny little fists and shout to the old guy inside while he ran out in case the man tried to make a break for it off his patio. Fortunately, he looked to be about the same age as his apartment number, so if he did attempt to hoof it, Sam should be able to run him down.

Maybe someday Sam would tire of bad guys being predictable, but today certainly wasn’t that day as he burst out the back of the building and did indeed spot Walks With a Limp cutting across the lawn towards the parking lot at as fast a clip as his apparent sciatica would allow. He could hear the old codger wheezing from all the way back by the complex, and he might have felt guilty about that if the guy hadn’t so clearly recognized Mac Awi. It seemed less and less likely that he was anything supernatural as Sam was able to catch up to him at a brisk walk, the terrified scream he let out when Sam grabbed his shoulder to turn him around catching the hunter off guard. Though the complex was mostly empty, there were enough people there for someone to call the cops if they misinterpreted Sam’s actions as elder abuse, so he let the geezer go while making sure he saw the gun tucked in his pants.

“Oh, god, please, don’t hurt me!” the man exclaimed, cowering in on himself and trying to shield as much of his body as possible with his arms as he took a few steps back.

“I’m not going to hurt you, calm down,” Sam ordered, though he did keep a hand on his weapon. “I just want to know why you ran when you saw us.”

“I haven’t had enough time yet,” the old man said, practically on the verge of tears. “I appreciate what he’s done for me, but I need more time! I’m not ready to go back yet!”

“What?” Sam asked, thoroughly lost. “Who?”

“The very old coyote!”

It was the third official mention of a coyote in connection to everything that was happening, and Sam’s heart rate sped up at the promise of finally finding someone who knew what they were dealing with. The man was clearly petrified, rooted to the spot even though Sam wasn’t touching him or his Taurus anymore. Whatever he didn’t want to go back to must be pretty terrible to provoke such a reaction, and Sam was just about to press the issue when he heard a shriek echo from the apartment building, followed by a scream that had his blood running cold.

“ ** _SAM_**!”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning.

Dean never enjoyed staying still when he could be moving, and he especially hated it when staying still meant babysitting a door. Sure, it came with the job, but that didn’t mean he had to like it or keep at it for very long. If the old guy ran out the back ( _odds were good he had since Sam hadn’t yet returned_ ), then Dean was basically just standing around with his metaphorical dick in his hand. After all the time spent hiding out in the bunker instead of doing their actual job of saving people and hunting things, he decided one ninety-plus-year-old Native American wasn’t likely to be the death of him and risked picking the lock. If he ended up taking a shotgun blast to the chest or something, it would serve Mac Awi right for running around whoring his body out without his consent.

The problem was he hadn’t anticipated a stocky, swarthy, thirty-something man to burst through the outer door and advance on him like a freight train. He caught the movement out of the corner of his eye right as the lock popped, but he didn’t have nearly enough time to do more than turn to find out what the guy’s problem was. The furious expression on his face was one Dean had seen often enough to know he was about to engage in a round of fisticuffs for which he was clearly outmatched.

“Stacy!” the man spat, and just based on his size Dean was guessing his bite actually _was_ going to be worse than his bark.

“Sorry, wrong redhead,” Dean tried, but it was clear by the man’s deepening scowl that he wasn’t buying it.

Two things occurred to Dean at once as adrenaline began to course through his veins, driving him to pick fight or flight in the remaining seconds he had before he was face to face with whoever this was. First, he should have expected something like this after learning the night before that Mac believed in equal opportunity oat sowing between the sexes. Somewhere along the way, she was bound to encounter a guy who thought she was in it for more than a night of fun. It wasn’t as if he’d never run into that himself, no matter how clear he always was with his conquests about _not_ staying in town for long. Second, either Mac went around giving out aliases to her string of one night stands, or her name was not actually Mac.

He filed that away to share with Sam later, once he took care of this problem. _If_ he could take care of this problem. The man continued to advance as Dean fumbled with the doorknob, thinking if he could at least get inside and lock the door, it would buy him a few seconds. He was coming too fast, though, and Dean shifted his hand to the Baby Browning in the holster at the small of his back to try to even the odds, much as he liked to avoid shooting civilians. Only the damn thing was so small that even his tiny little lady hands couldn’t get a good grip before tall, dark, and pissed off was within striking distance.

And strike he did. Whoever the guy was obviously didn’t have any formal training with how badly he telegraphed his punch, but with the size difference between them, that didn’t matter much. While Dean was able to duck under his swinging fist, his attempt to kick the guy farther away only managed to throw Dean himself off balance and send him stumbling through the open apartment door. The guy didn’t even budge, stalking after the hunter as Dean was still trying to regain his footing without tripping over the row of shoes in the entryway. 

“Think you can get away and I won’t find you, bitch?” Dean’s legs weren’t long enough to scramble away from his attacker before the man had a hand tangled in his long red hair and yanked. “Having the apartment manager tell me you left the state? Did you really think that would work?!”

Dean clamped his hand around his auburn locks between his attacker’s hand and his scalp so he could twist around enough to plant a foot to the inside of the man’s knee. He’d dropped the Browning somewhere in the shoes and had no way to go back for it as long as the guy was holding onto him, something he continued to do even as his leg buckled and he grunted. His grip on Dean didn’t let up either, and he threw another telegraphed punch that Dean had no hope of ducking without tearing out a sizable chunk of his hair. Instead, he threw up an arm to block the hit, not that it did him any good. 

The man might be several inches shy of six feet, but he was still a half foot taller than the woman Dean had been living in for a while now. The elder Winchester didn’t have nearly enough strength training to stop the blow, deflecting it just enough that he probably avoided a ruptured eardrum when a meaty fist connected with the side of his head. It was still more than enough to throw off his equilibrium and knock him to the side with enough force that Mr. Domestic Violence ended up ripping out that chunk of hair after all. 

Having that much hair torn out of one’s scalp hurt like a mofo and was something Dean hadn’t experienced since that one rebellious year he had when he was seventeen and decided to forgo his standard, almost-military cut, despite all his father’s warnings. He, therefore, felt no shame in the scream that erupted from his throat when a sizable chunk of skin separated from his head, blood immediately dampening the area around his new bald patch. Mr. Domestic Violence plainly hadn’t meant for Dean to escape, kicking the door shut behind them as the hunter scrambled towards the kitchen at the sight of the knife block on the counter by the sink. Mr. Domestic Violence was spouting some more crap about how he’d warned Stacy what would happen if she tried to leave him, but Dean really couldn’t hear any of it over the high-pitched ringing in his ears. He noticed a couple of pictures on the wall of the woman he was wearing ( _how very nice to meet you, Stacy_ ) tucked under the arm of the guy thundering after him, then spotted his brother way across the back of the property through the patio doors.

“ ** _SAM_**!” he shouted as he sensed the man at his back and made a last-ditch effort to dive for the knives. He got his fingertips on the handle of a steak knife, fumbling it out of the block as his attacker got a hand on his waistband and flung him the length of the galley kitchen like he weighed nothing. He barely maintained his hold on the knife and it was a miracle he didn’t end up impaled on it himself as he slammed face-first into the fridge, hearing his nose crunch as pain bloomed across his face. His vision was blurry as he turned, fighting vertigo, with blood pouring over his lips to discover the guy was almost on top of him. His sloppy attempt to stab Swarthy And Furious got him nowhere as the man caught his wrist and wrenched his arm back.

Dean felt his forearm snap like the clichéd twig, howling as the man ( _and he really would like to know who was kicking the crap out of him_ ) yanked him forward so the punch to his face had more force. The skin split on his cheek as he heard another crunch and the corner of his jaw popped in a way that was most definitely not good. He tried to call for Sam again, which got the man to let go of his arm in favor of wrapping a hand around his throat so he could hold Dean in place while he hit him again and again.

“Who is that guy, Stacy, huh?” the man hissed as Dean clawed at his fingers with his good hand, tears forcing their way out of the corners of his eyes. “Is he the reason you left me? Thought you’d find yourself some limp dick from up in Albuquerque or some such shit like that? Like you’d ever be good enough for a cuck who wears a suit?”

“Please,” Dean tried to say, the blood in his mouth choking him almost as much as the man’s hand.

“Why do you have to _do_ this? Why do you have to make me so _angry_? Why can’t you just do what you’re _told_?!”

The guy shook Dean hard, bouncing the back of his head off the bottom of the kitchen cabinets like he hadn’t already done enough damage. Jesus, he hadn’t been this overpowered since his last major growth spurt, when his muscles hadn’t caught up to his bones and he had to learn how to adjust for his longer range of motion and larger everything. He didn’t _know_ this body and how to use it, any more than he’d known what to do with his gangly limbs back then, and even if he had it was clear how severely outmatched he was by a simple _human_. Maybe if he’d gotten switched into the body of a larger woman with a stockier frame he’d have had a _chance_ , but five foot four with his mammary glands seemingly holding most of his bulk? Dean was pretty sure he was going to die.

Then the hand was gone from his throat and he was falling, darkness creeping in at the edges of the limited vision he still had in one eye. A blur of shaggy brown hair and a discount suit that could pass for high end in the right lighting flashed past him as his legs gave, the floor rushing up to meet his face. He thought dimly that it was really going to hurt when he made the acquaintance of the linoleum, but thankfully he was unconscious before that.

On a good day when they were only dealing with an angry spirit or a small vampire nest, Sam was typically able to keep his temper in check while watching his brother get knocked around like a rag doll. Seeing some guy with a neck tattoo beating a woman to death - who was also coincidentally his brother - officially exceeded his capacity to stay calm. He’d worried at first about letting the old Native American get away and was instantly glad he didn’t ignore Dean’s screams. The guy pinning Dean to the counter was too busy pounding his brother’s face in to notice when Sam burst through the open patio door, which made it much easier to haul him away from Dean so Sam could do his own pounding.

Whoever Neck Tattoo was, Sam had a good five inches on him and at least forty pounds of muscle, though the man had beefy arms and broad shoulders. He wasn’t about to go down without a fight either, throwing a series of blows into Sam’s ribs and around to one kidney, not that it gave him the upper hand in the end. Thanks to an uppercut and a right hook, Sam discovered the guy had a glass jaw and he went down onto the kitchen island like a sack of potatoes. Sam had him by the waistband and collar seconds later to fling him across said island into the dinette set on the other side, wanting him as far away from his brother as possible. The guy didn’t move, huffing quietly into the carpet as Sam whipped off his tie to secure the man’s bloody hands behind his back.

“Oh my god.”

Sam hadn’t expected the old man to follow him in from the lawn, not when he had a chance to make a clean escape, yet there he was in the patio doorway with horror etched into his face. He wasn’t looking at Sam, though, but into the kitchen where Dean had fallen in the melee. Sam finished the constrictor knot and pulled it tight around Neck Tattoo’s wrists before hurrying to see what was making the Native American look so ill.

“Dean!” Sam exclaimed as he rounded the corner of the island, spotting his brother and feeling as sick as the old man looked. There was so much blood; covering Dean’s face, soaking Dean’s hair, forming a little pool under his head. Fingerprints stood out a stark, ugly purple against his throat. The only reason Sam knew he was alive was the gurgling sound he was making as he breathed. “Dean!”

“There’s a woman who’s been beaten,” the old man said, catching Sam’s attention long enough for him to realize the man had pulled out a cell phone and was presumably speaking with 9-1-1. “We need an ambulance at Sun Ridge Village Apartments, number ninety-four in building I… Stacy Jackson... I’m her neighbor, George Embaucador… Yes, her ex-boyfriend… Yes, he has a history of violence. She has a restraining order… He’s still here, she came back with a...friend who stopped the attack… Paul Sanchez… Yes, but we’ve got him tied up in the kitchen… She’s breathing, but he...he beat her up real bad this time… It’s on the ground floor, at the back of the building.”

“Tell them to hurry,” Sam ordered, fingers pressed to the thready pulse in Dean’s neck as he half listened to the running commentary, like a radio distant in the background. 

“Hurry.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning, maybe. Probably.

It had been a long time since either Winchester had been in the hospital like this; not since Dean was running around with Crowley and Sam needed surgery on his shoulder. Every minute of that experience had been worse than any before it for Sam, including the whole mess with Gadreel, because his brother hadn’t been there. This felt eerily similar as he sat beside the petite woman hooked up to all the wires with the breathing tube down her throat, one entire side of her face bandaged, and couldn’t do anything more than hope Dean woke up. 

He’d already prayed to Cas, who had been spectacularly unhelpful, though he did have a point when he said that if he just showed up and healed some random woman named Stacy Jackson, who was clinging to life after domestic battery, the police were bound to notice. They’d already taken Sam’s statement and assured him Paul “Neck Tattoo” Sanchez wouldn’t be getting out of jail anytime soon, though they looked at him askance. George did his best to cover for him, spinning a story about Sam being there to help Stacy get some of her things, so that was at least something. Cas did agree to give it a day or so, then come down and do some minor healing that wouldn’t put Dean back at one hundred percent but would at least be plausible without seeming miraculous. Still, even getting him to agree to that had been like pulling teeth. 

Dean was right. Cas was definitely acting weird. Not that Sam had any ability to think about what might be going on with him at the moment.

“How is your...?”

Sam hadn’t expected George to follow the ambulance to the hospital, or to stay through Dean’s surgeries to put in the pins and plates to fix the fractures to his ulna and radius. He was incredibly lucky one of the jagged ends of the broken bones hadn’t severed an artery, and it would take a lot of physical therapy to regain full use of his arm. Or at least, his arm for the foreseeable future, until they could find this Stacy Jackson and figure out how to switch her back into her own body. At least his injuries were bad enough to warrant a private room.

“Brother,” Sam growled. Whoever this George was, he obviously knew something about how Dean ended up in a woman’s body ( _a very_ **_vulnerable_ ** _woman at that_ ), and so, much as Sam wanted to choke the truth out of him, he recognized that it was probably a bad idea. “The left side of his face is broken in six places and is going to take multiple surgeries to fix. They think the hinge of his jaw is cracked, but they couldn’t get a really good look at it so they’ll have to take another scan. He has two broken ribs, a broken nose, they won’t know until he wakes up if there’s any nerve damage in his arm, and at the moment they’ve got him in a medically induced coma while they monitor a pretty significant brain bleed.”

“Jesus,” George whispered, his hand flying to his mouth and his eyes watering instantly.

“They’re also worried that he might end up blind in his left eye,” Sam said, willing his stomach to stop turning over. “But they won’t know that either until they can wake him up.”

“I’m just so sorry.” Saline was running in rivers down the old man’s face as he choked out the apology, looking from Sam to the small, still figure in the bed. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m guessing you’re not really Stacy’s neighbor.”

“No. No, I’m Stacy.” There weren’t many things these days that could set Sam back on his heels, but that definitely did it. “God, this wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Sam had to work very hard to remind himself that even though he was looking at a weathered old Native American man, he was actually dealing with a victim of domestic abuse. He needed to keep his cool so he wouldn’t frighten her, especially when she was his best shot at getting his brother back. That wasn’t exactly easy when he was sitting beside Dean’s hospital bed, clutching the elder Winchester’s good hand in a way Dean would never allow if he was awake.

“What was?” he demanded once he’d gotten his breathing under control, his nostrils not flaring quite as much as an angry bull’s. He wanted more than anything to let her know how many guys Mac Awi had taken to bed just to watch her reaction, but being cruel wouldn’t get them anywhere so he bit his tongue.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” George - Stacy - humorlessly laughed. 

With a gesture to his unconscious brother, Sam snapped, “Pretty sure I will.”

Angry as he still was, Sam relaxed as he watched the fear flashing across Stacy’s face, hunching in on himself to look smaller than he already was sitting down. After a moment Stacy relaxed as well, at least enough to take up the chair on the opposite side of the bed. She regarded her broken body for several tense moments, then heaved a long sigh.

“George really is my neighbor,” she explained quietly, running George’s fingertips over the cast on her arm. “He lives in number ninety-two, and he runs this karaoke business…”

“Yeah, I know.”

She flinched at the undercurrent of rage in Sam’s voice, but since he was still sitting very calmly in his chair, she continued.

“He used to hear us. Me and Paul. Arguing. Hell, I’m sure the whole building heard us, but no one else actually _cared_. You’d be surprised what people brush off as none of their business. Not that I didn’t say that to a couple of people a couple of times when the sunglasses didn’t quite cover up a black eye, but, you know. I thought he loved me. That I could never do any better. That I deserved it.” She chortled wetly, the sound catching in her throat, and wiped at her cheeks. “Pretty stupid, huh? That’s me, though. Stupid Stacy.” Easy as it would have been to offer her some kind of platitude, Sam didn’t get the feeling it would be welcome, so he kept his mouth shut as she struggled to control her swelling emotions. “Anyway. One day we had a really bad fight - not that they weren’t all bad, but this one was...this one was _really_ bad, and I told Paul I was done, that I was leaving. I don’t know why I said it, instead of just _doing_ it, I just...I think I wanted to see the look on his face when he realized that I wasn’t gonna take it anymore. Stupid. And he lost it. I mean, worse than he normally did, cracked a couple of molars, broke a couple of fingers, choked me and...other things...and, uh, when he was done he said that if I...if I ever tried to leave him, he’d kill me before I made it to the door. That it didn’t matter where I went, he’d find me and he’d kill me.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam murmured, knowing by the shape his brother was in that it hadn’t been an idle threat.

“It is what it is,” she murmured back with a shrug. “He hung around for a little while, after, but we didn’t have any beer in the house - it’s why he was so mad in the first place - so he headed out to the liquor store, and while he was gone, George came over. He heard the whole thing. He called the police, wouldn’t let me weasel out of pressing charges, getting a restraining order, the whole nine yards. But it’s not like they could keep Paul in jail forever, he’s got a big family and they bailed him out immediately, and he just...he didn’t stop. Just because he had to stay five hundred feet from me didn’t really mean much when he could just stand on the street across from my job and watch me. Or show up at the grocery store at the same time. He slashed my tires more than once and keyed my car, broke the windows - not that I could prove it, but who else would do that kind of stuff? I got the manager to change the locks on our apartment, only she said if I wanted them to change the locks on the doors to the building I’d have to pay for it and for cutting new keys for everyone and how could I afford that after having to pay to replace my windshield? He even smashed the patio doors, though at least he didn’t come in. I almost got evicted anyway, which is when George said he could help. And then he told me something that made me think he was crazy. I still think it was crazy, _you’re_ going to think it’s crazy...”

“I’m really not,” Sam assured her, using his best witness-interviewing voice and throwing in just a hint of puppy dog eyes for good measure. It calmed her enough to continue after she let out a shaky breath.

“He said his name wasn’t really George Embaucador. That I wouldn’t be able to pronounce his real name, because it hadn’t been spoken in five hundred years. He told me he was a god, an _old_ god, of music, dance, and...uh...carnal desire. I almost hit him with a lamp when he got to that part, figured I was still trying to get one crazy person out of my life, I didn’t need to invite some old pervert into it, but then he kind of...I dunno...transformed? Into this half man, half coyote... _thing_. Scared the crap out of me, I thought, what the hell have I gotten myself into? Then he changed back and that was just as freaky, and then he explained that he could...switch with me. Until I had everything in order and could get away from Paul cleanly. I still thought he was nuts, I mean, what can do _that_ , but he said he could show me if I’d just take his hand. So, you know, I did, because what could it hurt at that point, and then I felt this...weird tingling and the next thing I knew I was staring at myself. Which, let me tell you, was freaky enough, then he walked me over to the mirror in my entryway and showed me. I was George and George was me. And he said we could stay that way for as long as it took for me to figure things out.” 

“Did he want anything from you?” Sam asked. He’d let go of Dean’s hand to pull out his notebook and was scribbling furiously, which seemed to put her at ease.

“No, nothing. When I asked him why he was helping me, he said, ‘Because someone so young should only feel pleasure, not pain.’ He said he’d keep running the karaoke business and shuttle me the money so I could buy a one-way ticket as far away from Paul as possible. Only I don’t really think he realized how hard it was going to be getting a job and an apartment for Stacy Jackson when George Embaucador was the one answering phone interviews.”

“So when we showed up, you thought he was back to switch with you.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry I ran when I saw you, I just...there are still things I have to sort out. It never occurred to me that he’d switch again with someone else or that someone else would come looking for either one of us.”

“That’s okay. I get it, given the circumstances.”

“And I really didn’t think Paul would be there. I’d seen him lurking a couple of times, but he hadn’t been there in, like, a week, so…”

“Really, it’s fine. Honestly, that’s just our kind of luck anyway.” Her brow furrowed in bemusement, and with a sigh, he said, “We...my brother and I, this is our job, actually. We hunt monsters. Lesser gods, demons, witches. Ghosts. If it goes bump in the night, we take care of it.”

“Seriously?” she asked, seeming awed enough that Sam couldn’t help but laugh, even if it was brief. After all, she’d made some kind of deal with an ancient god yet she still sounded surprised. “Ghosts are real?”

“Very. That’s why we were in New Mexico in the first place.”

“Well. Crap. I thought the god thing was crazy enough.”

“Is there anything else George told you that might help me figure out what he is or track him down?”

“Just that he loves karaoke. I mean, he _loves_ karaoke. Seems like a weird thing for a god to be obsessed with, but he told me it falls under his umbrella, whatever that means.”

“Thanks,” Sam said, tucking the notebook into his jacket as he ran through a mental list of the gods they might be dealing with. Dionysus? Canola? Neither of them was associated with coyotes, though, and Canola was a goddess. Maybe something Egyptian?

“Sure,” she said quietly, petting along Dean’s arm above the cast. “If there’s anything I can do…”

“Actually…” His stomach churned again as he clasped Dean’s good hand, stroking the tiny fingers with his thumb as he cranked up the puppy eyes. “Could you stay with my brother while I go look up some of this information? I know your ex is in jail, but I really don’t want to leave him alone, and I have to try to track down whatever George really is.”

“Oh.” 

She swallowed, her hand tightening on Dean’s arm and her eyes going wide. 

“I have a friend coming in,” Sam said quickly. “A sheriff, just in case anyone Paul knows tries to come here and do anything. I called her when the locals said they couldn’t station someone at the door, but Jody’s up in South Dakota, and there are no direct flights, plus she’s going to have to drive in from Albuquerque…”

“No, that’s okay, I can stay until she gets here. It’s no problem. I mean, it’s me anyway, right? I wouldn’t want anyone to leave me alone if the roles were reversed.”

“Thank you.” Sam was already standing, leaning over to write his number on a slip of paper to hand to her. “This is my cell. Call me if anything happens, and I do mean anything. Hopefully, I can figure this out quickly, you’ve given me some really solid leads.”

“Sure, yeah, of course. So you’re gonna...you’re gonna figure out how to switch us back, huh?”

Sam didn’t miss the way her eyes darted over the bandages covering half of Dean’s face, _her_ face, and he reached across the supine figure on the bed to give her arm a squeeze. He felt bad when she nearly jumped out of her skin.

“We have a friend who can fix some things,” he assured her gently. “Not everything or the doctors are going to question how a whole broken face just puts itself back together, but enough that you won’t be this bad.”

“A friend?”

“An angel.”

She barked out a laugh at that, staring at him in plain disbelief, then really laughed when she realized he was serious.

“An angel,” she echoed at last, the smile that was splitting her wrinkled face eventually turning to a grimace. “Great. Maybe it can tell me why no one ever answered my prayers and it took an ancient god to step in and help.”

“Not that it will make you feel any better, but in our experience you’re ahead of the game not having your prayers answered,” Sam said, giving her one more gentle squeeze before forcing himself to walk away. He hated leaving Dean behind and wasn’t sure Stacy would really stay with him, but his notebook was already burning a hole in his pocket and his skin was vibrating from the need to get to a library and do some digging. It was Thursday, after all, which meant karaoke at the Feathered Coyote. If whatever god they were after really did have a karaoke obsession he’d probably be there, and Sam needed to be ready for him.


	9. Chapter 9

Huehuecóyotl, the “very old coyote,” was undoubtedly the god Sam was looking for. Sam wasn’t surprised he told Stacy she wouldn’t be able to pronounce his name, since he was Aztec and even the Internet didn’t attempt the phonetics of it. The Aztecs believed he ruled over music, dance, song, and mischief, as well as uninhibited sexuality and, more recently, karaoke had fallen into his domain. Sam understood why he was drawn to Dean but not to Stacy, though he fully planned to ask once he tracked him down. Huehuecóyotl was a trickster god ( _not surprising when a quick translation search of “Embaucador” revealed that it meant “trickster”_ ), so a wooden stake dipped in Dean’s blood would do the job of killing him if he refused to play nicely. Though Sam truly hoped it wouldn’t come to that. There was no way to know if killing the trickster would undo all the shifting or trap Dean in Stacy’s body forever.

Stacy was still at the hospital to Sam’s pleasant surprise when he turned up to cut his brother’s palm and collect enough blood to make the stake a proper weapon. Sam really expected her to run at the first chance she got, though it wasn’t likely she wanted to stay in an old man’s body forever, trickster god or not. As it turned out, the police had contacted her mother, who was on the way in from Tempe to sit by her daughter’s bedside. Stacy hadn’t seen her since things got really bad with Paul ( _hadn’t been allowed to see her, really_ ) and even if all she could do was play the concerned neighbor card, she wasn’t passing up the chance to spend time with her mom for anything.

Jody had already landed in Dallas for her layover and called Sam, which was another thing to set his mind at ease. Even if she would still have to drive three hours to get to the hospital once she touched down in New Mexico, there was the promise of more than just Stacy being in the hospital with Dean. No one from Paul’s family had been by to cause problems, and Sam had already talked to her about his plan to head back up to the Feathered Coyote for karaoke. Stacy was more than happy to continue her vigil at Dean’s bedside until her mother and/or Jody arrived, so long as she could run home quickly to grab some clothes before Sam left the hospital. She didn’t know if she could even get in or if the apartment would be cordoned off, but she at least wanted to change her underwear and maybe take a shower. Sam could definitely empathize.

It was well after dinner time when Stacy finally returned to the hospital, her mother ( _“Call me Margaret”_ ) having already been there for some time so at least the awkwardness was mostly out of the way. She’d arrived while Stacy was back at Sunrise Village taking that much-needed shower and had understandably been suspicious of the strange man in her daughter’s room. She settled some once she learned he was the person who saved Stacy from Paul, after which Sam couldn’t get her to stop crying. When Jody showed up she was grateful to have someone from law enforcement there, even a total stranger from out of state, and Sam didn’t blame her. The stories she’d told him about what Paul Sanchez had done to her daughter before Stacy cut off contact were horrifying.

The Feathered Coyote was just as busy as it had been weeks ago when the whole mess began. The parking lot was full and overflowing onto the street, [_Wrecking Ball_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Itzk9W4YXw4) blaring loudly enough for Sam to tell whoever was up at the moment had some serious pipes. He hoped that so many people on site meant Huehuecóyotl was still wearing Dean and his popularity had drawn everyone in. Cas’ proclamation that a third soul had entered the mix weighed heavy on his heart, though, and he made sure the wooden stake was cleanly tucked inside his jacket before parking the Impala on the street and heading inside.

“Inside” was standing room only, and Sam barely found enough space at the bar for his six-foot-four frame at the end nearest the door, where he’d have the best view of the place. His hopes that people were there for Dean were dashed when he spotted the guy running the karaoke machine up front. About the only thing he had in common with Dean was his age bracket, his slight paunch and receding hairline a decided contrast to the confidence he exuded when the current singer finished and he instructed everyone to applaud for Carly. Whoever he was, he’d fully mastered the setup and was already calling up Matt to give the crowd a little [_Summer Nights_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z5f8y4pJIBw) in the style of Rascal Flatts. Regardless of anything else that came out of this case, Sam was pretty sure he’d never want to hear another damn country song again.

“Hey! Stan, isn’t it?”

Phil was tending bar and there at his elbow as Sam watched the DJ bop good-naturedly to the beat. Anyone paying attention to him would have thought it was the best song ever, and maybe that was the job of a good karaoke DJ; to make the singer think they’d picked the perfect song. Or maybe the very old coyote had switched again after all.

“It’s Sam, actually,” Sam said, his eyes still glued to the stage. “I take it Dean’s not working for Encore anymore?”

“Nah, he was in earlier and told me he was switching off to Barry up there,” Phil told him as the crowd got rowdier with the change to an upbeat song from the relative downer of Miley Cyrus. “You just missed him, in fact, by maybe an hour. Gotta tell you, it was a bit of a shock, but he said he’d only planned to pass through anyway, and Barry - well, he could really use something like this.”

“Really?” That got Sam’s attention turned from Barry ( _it was definitely a fitting name_ ), and the way Phil was now watching the small, portly man at the front of the bar piqued his curiosity. “Why’s that?”

“Barry’s always had a tough kinda life,” Phil replied, pausing to polish a couple of glasses while the two other bartenders on staff were busy keeping everyone down the bar happy. “I went to school with the guy up until his dad died junior year, then his mom moved them down to Williamsburg and decided he needed to support the family. It’s this dinky little town just south of here, doesn’t even have five hundred people living there anymore. Anyway, he was always the smartest kid in the class, right on track to be the valedictorian and get the hell outta this one horse town, but his mom, she’s one of those people that always thinks they’re sick. Whattaya call ‘em?”

“Hypochondriacs,” Sam supplied, and Phil nodded grimly.

“Yeah, she’s one of those. Always relying on him, guilt trippin’ him, makin’ him believe she’s gonna up and die this time if he leaves her. Real religious, too, one of those evangelical types. A Born Again, I think. After Barry’s dad died he just never managed to get out from under her thumb. He almost never makes it up here anymore. I wonder if she finally kicked it.” 

“Phil, this ain’t no social hour,” the brunette at the other end of the bar snapped, and while she looked to weigh about a buck twenty, her tone made it clear she’d be kicking Phil’s ass in a second if he didn’t get back to work.

“Sorry Elaine,” Phil called back before turning to ask Sam, “What can I get you?”

“Barry’s address,” Sam said, getting an eyebrow arched at him in response.

“I don’t think Barry swings that way,” Phil said. “No offense or nothin’, you’re a great lookin’ guy and I don’t care which team you bat for…”

“That’s not...that’s not what I need it for. Dean’s my partner.”

“Like I said, I don’t care which team…”

“Not that kind of partner. Look, I lied to you about the high school reunion. I'm a federal agent. My partner and I were looking into...uh...religious cults in the area, and he stayed behind to try to get a lead on some suspicious activity, only he hasn’t been checking in. Mac is one of our informants, but I needed to confirm how well known she was around here and if we were putting her at risk. Sorry for lying to you before.”

“You think…” Civilians were always so easy to read, and Phil was definitely the type of guy who liked the local gossip that ran in the vein of conspiracy theories. “You think that’s what Barry’s mom’s involved in?”

“I think there’s definitely something screwy going on with my partner, yeah,” Sam said suggesitvely. “Can you give me his information?”

“Sure. Yeah, sure. That’s no problem. Like I said, it’s a real small town.”

“And how long is he going to be doing his gig?”

“All the way until closing. I can try to stall him some if you want me to keep him here.”

“That would help, just so I can get a chance to talk to the mother alone. Can I get your cell so I can call if I need more time?”

“Sure. Absolutely. Oh man, I always knew his mom was weird.”

“He might be wrapped up in it too, though, so if he really wants to leave, let him. Here, let me give you my number as well so you can shoot me a text if he’s heading out and you haven’t heard from me.”

“Oh man. This is really exciting. It’s like _Criminal Minds_ or somethin’!”

“Phil!”

Elaine _really_ looked pissed off now, and Phil jotted down Barry’s address as quickly as he could before she stormed over to drag him back to work by his ear. Sam could hear him saying something in a rush under his breath about talking to the Feds, punching Sam’s digits into his phone as he hurried to the middle of the bar where patrons were starting to stack up a couple of rows deep. Matt and Rascal Flatts were finally done and a much older woman with magnificent white hair was belting out [_Memory_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=keomj64BTm0) and making more than a few people misty-eyed. Barry was captivated, beaming as he watched someone’s mother make a grown man near the front openly weep. If he noticed Sam at all or was worried about his presence he didn’t show it, and the hunter slunk back out through the crowd to punch the address into Google Maps, pleased to discover it was only seven minutes away down I-25BL. 

Barry and his mother, who comprised the whole two-person family of the Garners, lived in a double-wide off Mona Avenue on a dead-end lot within spitting distance of the Rio Grande. The nearest house was half a block away, which wasn’t very far, though far enough to be isolating. A dog barked somewhere behind Sam as he parked the Impala a few car lengths up the street and made sure he had handcuffs and his gun tucked securely in his coat. It was cold enough to see his breath, and the crisp night air carried the muffled sounds of shoveling to him fifty feet from the trailer.

The lights were off inside and a quick twist of the knob confirmed the front door was locked. Sam did his due diligence of peeking through the blinds to see what he could, which wasn’t much. There was a sofa facing a television, still on and tuned into _Chicago Med_ , that shed just enough light to see an overturned coffee table and precious little else. It gave Sam enough of a look around the house to satisfy whether it was empty or not, and he tiptoed back down the rickety porch steps to head towards the source of the shoveling.

Even without the benefit of a flashlight, Sam recognized the breadth of his brother’s back as whoever was currently wearing Dean ( _undoubtedly Barry at this point_ ) worked on what could only be a shallow grave. Sam recognized it as such not only because he’d seen so many graves in his lifetime but because of the clearly dead body lying next to it, wrapped in a tarp with one slippered foot sticking out from the end. The figure was small, likely a woman, likely Mrs. Garner, and Sam struggled to square away what he knew of Huehuecóyotl with the sight before him. He still didn’t know why the trickster god swapped with Dean, but he’d obviously been trying to help Stacy escape from Paul, and it didn’t take a brain surgeon to deduce he’d likely been trying to help Barry escape from his mother. What didn’t make sense was why the god of karaoke would willingly enable anyone planning to commit murder. 

“Throw down the shovel and put your hands in the air,” Sam ordered in his best Fed voice when he was sure Barry hadn’t heard him over his digging, cocking his gun for good measure. The urge to take out his pocket flashlight was strong, but the last thing Sam needed was to attract attention from the neighbors by shining a light everywhere when technically his brother was trying to get rid of a dead body.

“Who the hell are you?” Dean’s voice demanded, though he threw down the shovel anyway and raised his arms as instructed.

“Sierra County Sheriff’s Office,” Sam barked. “Someone called in about a woman screaming.”

“This, uh...this isn’t what it looks like,” the other man said, turning to give Sam his first glimpse of Dean’s face in nearly a month.

“Really? Because it looks like you’re digging a grave for whoever’s in that tarp.”

“That’s just my dog.”

“Your dog wears bunny slippers?”

Seeing Dean’s cocky grin and knowing it wasn’t his brother smiling twisted Sam’s insides like the imposter was wringing out an internal towel, and he lowered his gun just a fraction. It was enough of an opening to embolden Barry Garner, who must have absorbed some of Dean’s confidence and swagger. At any rate, after Phil’s description of a man so browbeaten by his mother that he’d given up any hope of getting “out from under her thumb,” Sam certainly wasn’t expecting it when Barry turned and took off across the sandy lot, through the sparse mesquites growing along the property line, and straight into the Rio Grande. Sam’s day just kept getting better all the time.


	10. Chapter 10

As far as escape plans went, Barry Garner settled on a stupid one, since the river separated the tiny hamlet of Williamsburg from miles of desert and creosote bushes and literally nothing else. If Barry managed to get away, he was going to end up stranded without food, water, or shelter in fifty-degree weather. That would have been tolerable if he hadn’t shed Dean’s standard layers and wasn’t currently fleeing from Sam in a tee shirt and ripped jeans. Under the circumstances, he was probably going to end up with hypothermia if Sam lost him.

And that turned out to be a real danger, an outcome that took Sam totally by surprise. He’d expected that obviously Barry would be easy to catch since he’d already killed someone and dug a grave, tasks which Sam knew from personal experience were physically taxing. Unfortunately, it seemed that a mixture of adrenaline and Dean’s own athletic abilities was giving Barry the stamina to hoof it across the sand at a ridiculous pace, much to Sam’s chagrin. He knew better than anyone just how fast his brother was, even with his shorter bowed legs, and had spent many years cursing Dean’s sprinting ability. Sam was better over long distances, but the farther they got from the already weak lights of Williamsburg the less it looked like he could keep Barry in his sights without divine intervention. That clearly wasn’t coming, what with the angel warding carved into their ribs, and he was left hoping the moon didn’t decide to slip behind some badly timed clouds. 

It really felt like the universe was laughing at him when the stars dimmed and the moonlight vanished right along with Barry, who’d reached a section of the desert with thick patches of brush. Sam remembered belatedly that he was hunting a trickster and shouldn’t be surprised about running into ridiculous complications when the heavens opened up above him and it began to pour. He had to stop and pull out his flashlight in the vain hope he could still see Barry’s footsteps before the rain washed them away, his long hair plastered over his eyes by the heavy droplets pounding down on his head and shoulders. 

“Give it up Barry!” he shouted, panning the light across the creosote and hoping he saw some movement. “You’re going to freeze out here! You’ve got nowhere to go and the rain’s only going to make it worse!” 

There was no answer or sign of movement from the bushes, and the only sound was the swelling river behind him. Sam knew just enough about flash floods to be worried by the ongoing deluge. The Rio was low enough here that it had only come up to his thighs when he crossed it after his brother’s retreating form, and he had no idea how much rain it would take before it started to rise and the currents became dangerous. With the unusual strength of the storm, he couldn’t help but wonder if that was Huehuecóyotl’s plan. He must have some link to the bodies he churned through, perhaps to the point where he tried to protect them if they were in danger, otherwise Cas wouldn’t be able to feel that Dean’s soul was tethered to someone else. Though that didn’t seem quite right, not when Dean had been so badly beaten the day before without any intervention whatsoever, unless the link weakened with each body jump. Sam was determined not to get sidetracked with a growing list of questions, however, not when he still didn’t have Barry in his sights.

That was mercifully the case for only a few more minutes before Sam finally spotted one of the creosote bushes shaking as the beam from his flashlight landed on it. A quick tilt down revealed one foot peeking out just enough for Sam to notice it, and when he kept the light there and took a few steps forward, Barry made a break for it. The exhaustion of the digging, the running, and the dropping temperature had obviously started to take its toll, as he was moving at a much slower pace, though the wet sand wasn’t giving Sam any help. It was another hundred yards before Sam finally caught up and tackled him, both of them panting from exertion as Barry tried to claw his way out from under the larger man and failed.

It was an unnecessary reminder that despite looking at his brother’s muscled shoulders and dark blond hair, shorter than he’d worn it in a while and oh so reminiscent of when he’d just gotten back from Hell, Sam’s Dean was back in a hospital bed in an induced coma. Barry had no idea what Dean’s body was capable of, how to use his hands to fight, or how to twist his legs around Sam’s to unseat him and gain the upper hand. Sam was overwhelmed by the feeling of missing his brother as he sparred against someone who, by all literal outward appearances, had been handing him his ass since he was eight and John decided he was old enough to start training, just not old enough to know why. Barry was so unworthy of wearing Dean Winchester that it took a tremendous amount of self-restraint on Sam’s part not to bash his face in.

“Are you going to come quietly or do I need to convince you some more?” Sam snarled as he struggled to get Barry’s hands pinned behind his back. Just because he didn’t have Dean’s training didn’t mean the asshole wasn’t using Dean’s strength to his greatest advantage.

“You gotta let me up!” Barry cried, sputtering as his face sank into the wet sand. “I have asthma!”

“No you don’t,” Sam spat, thankful he’d grabbed a pair of handcuffs from the trunk in case he needed them. Sure, they were the demon cuffs, but they’d do. “At least not in this body.”

“What?”

“On your feet.”

Barry actually whined like a goddamned girl at being yanked to his feet by his wrists, and not a tough girl like the hunters he knew, but a girl who wore Uggs and drank lattes and pouted if she broke a nail. Sam wanted to put a bullet in his kneecap just on principle, only Dean was the one who would have to live with the bum knee and they needed to get back across a rapidly rising river. The rain wasn’t letting up either and it was hard enough to slosh back across the desert sand as it was without adding a bum leg into the mix. If Barry was still whining when they got back to the Impala, Sam would just coldcock him.

The Rio was raging by the time they reached it, gushing past them swiftly in a way that reminded Sam bitterly of the whole reason they’d come to this godforsaken state to begin with. Sure, there were children drowning and someone needed to save them, he just wished they’d been quicker in doing so and never set foot in the Feathered Coyote. If he survived getting back across the river and found a way to get Dean awake and back into his body, Sam was putting a moratorium on bars for at least the next four hunts. They didn’t really need to hustle pool anymore at their age after the fake accounts both Frank and Charlie set up for them years ago, and if either of them wanted to wind down after killing something, well, that’s why God invented liquor stores. 

Barry turned out to be just as stupid as his body looked when Sam first saw him manning the karaoke machine, deciding that he should twist away and try to make a break for it when Sam slipped about halfway across the river. It apparently never occurred to Barry that Sam slipped because one, the current was really strengthening and two, the bottom of the river was slippery, or he might have thought twice about wrenching his arm from Sam’s grip. There weren’t many things he could have done that would have been dumber in the middle of a river in a rainstorm with his hands cuffed behind his back, and predictably, he went down on his ass in water that came up to his chin before the Rio Grande started to sweep him away.

Sam hadn’t contemplated murdering someone in a long time as seriously as he was considering it now as he hurried after Barry Garner and fought not to get caught up in the undertow tugging mightily at his legs. Barry was bobbing and sputtering and calling out for help, which pretty much led to swallowing mouthfuls of muddy water as he sounded like he was fighting back tears. Whatever possessed Huehuecóyotl to switch places with Barry, Sam couldn’t begin to imagine as he got a fistful of his tee shirt and managed to haul him slowly towards the shore. The shirt strained and tore, but not before Sam had him close enough to grab the back of his belt instead. It was a much more efficient way to drag a choking and crying Barry up onto the bank.

“If you try that again,” Sam growled as he caught his breath, his hand spanning his brother’s chest to press Barry into the ground, “I will break your face. Get up.”

“You don’t understand,” Barry wept, Dean’s glassy green eyes sending a stab of pain through Sam that he struggled to hide from the dickhead who’d nearly drowned them both. “I had to kill her. I couldn’t take it anymore!”

“I don’t care.”

Sam wrenched Barry’s arm extra hard as he pulled him to his feet again, silently cursing himself when he realized he’d pulled on Dean’s bad shoulder and his brother would undoubtedly feel how rough Sam had been with him once everything was said and done. Then Sam thought of what Dean looked like when he’d left him in Stacy’s body in the hospital, and he decided anything short of a full body cast would probably be a step up. Barry tried to get away from him once more as they trudged back to the car through the pouring rain that was gradually turning to hail ( _they’d been carried downstream a good distance from the Impala_ ), but one solid punch to the gut changed his mind about that.

While they were less than ten minutes from the Feathered Coyote, it took a good twenty minutes to get back thanks to the weather. Sam was starting to panic quietly to himself that Huehuecóyotl would be gone by the time he got there, even though it was nowhere near closing time, and he’d have to spend another month tracking him down all over again. It would be easy for Phil to decide the bar needed to close early with the inclement weather and to send everyone home before they got stuck in the storm, and indeed, that was exactly what Sam found as he pulled into the parking lot just in time to watch all the patrons fleeing towards their cars. The bar’s lights were still on, so at least that was something, but with no way of knowing what the very old coyote was driving ( _presuming he was driving anything at all_ ), Sam had no idea if he was even still there.

“What are we doing here?” Barry sniveled in Dean’s voice, sniffing and leaning over the best he could to wipe his nose on his shoulder. Sam was glad he wasn’t actually wearing one of Dean’s better tees, as the water stains on the upholstery were going to be enough for his brother to bitch about without Barry ruining one of his shirts. “Aren’t we going to the police station?”

“No,” Sam said, killing the engine and grabbing the stake from where he’d left it on the front seat.

“Wha...what are you going to do with that?” Barry cried, pushing himself against the passenger door in a desperate bid to escape.

“Nothing to you, Jesus, calm down,” Sam snapped. “You’re just embarrassing yourself at this point.” A particularly loud thunderclap sounded overhead as a bolt of lightning hit the parking lot, and Barry honest-to-goodness screamed. “For the love of...grow a pair already, Barry!”

“You know who I am?” Barry whimpered as Sam waited while a second bolt of lightning hit the parking lot.

“Yes, and I know you made a deal with an old Aztec god, who is in there right now wearing your body and probably pissed that he won’t be hooking up tonight. Though with the way you look, I don’t know how he thought he’d manage that to begin with.”

“Hey!” Barry sounded genuinely offended and Sam spared him a glance in the rearview mirror. He was definitely wearing Dean’s patented indignance. “I resent that! I’ll have you know, I do all right for myself!”

“Oh really?” Sam demanded. “When you live with your overbearing hypochondriac mother?” Barry flushed beet red to the tips of Dean’s ears and Sam sneered, “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“Just because I probably can’t get anyone in your league doesn’t mean I don’t get them,” Barry snapped. “Sure, it may not be often, but there are plenty of lonely women out there who happen to _like_ that I’m nonthreatening and a nice guy!”

“Who killed his mother and was planning to bury her in her backyard!”

“You don’t know what it’s like to have a mother like that. The clinging. The gaslighting. Insisting I live my life _her_ way on _her_ terms, making me feel like it’s _my_ fault that she doesn’t love me when it’s clear she’s not capable of loving anyone but herself! Telling me it would _kill_ her if I ever left, then turning around and ordering me to get out of her sight! So fine, I couldn’t take it anymore, and I saw a chance to get rid of her for good, when I looked like someone else so that my prints wouldn’t match and I’d have an airtight alibi because everyone saw me running karaoke at the time of her death. I mean, if she was going to keep insisting she’d die if I left her, I thought I’d just prove her right is all!”

“Barry, I really don’t care,” Sam said, pulling him out of the back seat and frog-marching him towards the door. “Just don’t expect anyone to come help you when she decides to haunt your ass.”

For the first time since they met, Barry showed excellent judgment and kept his mouth shut.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was actually close with my chapter estimate this time! One more to go.

The Feathered Coyote looked wrong emptied out on a Thursday night, the colored lights for the karaoke setup still churning across the ceiling while Phil, Elaine, and the waitstaff rushed to clean up so they could close for the evening. Barry-who-was-not-Barry was up on stage serenading them with [_Time is Running Out_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O2IuJPh6h_A), which seemed strangely appropriate, given that Huehuecóyotl plainly knew Sam was onto him. In fact, when he looked across the room to where Sam stood, scowling and soaked in the doorway with the imposter wearing Dean in front of him, the very old coyote had the nerve to wink. Sam didn’t care if the stories about him _did_ all say he was basically benevolent, or at least not purposefully malevolent. If Huehuecóyotl put up any kind of stink to fixing the mess he made, Sam was stabbing him. 

“Sam!” Phil exclaimed once he spotted him, his gaze shifting from confusion to worry when he saw the smaller man with him and his disheveled state. “And Dean! I...wasn’t expecting you back here.”

“Yeah, the storm caught us kind of by surprise,” Sam said, dragging Barry over to the bar and slamming him down onto a stool, keeping one hand tight on the cuffs. “Found my partner, though.”

“I can see that!” Phil glanced towards the stage before lowering his voice to ask, “Everything okay?”

“Not really. Didn’t find Barry’s mom, and someone dosed my partner here with some kind of hallucinogenic, so we’re at a dead end. This place cleared out fast.”

“Well, with the flash storm and everything.”

“Right.”

Phil leaned in close, murmuring, “You need me to clear everyone else out or…”

“No,” Barry said immediately, hissing as Sam twisted both his wrists with a half-turn of the cuffs.

“Yes, that would be great,” Sam told him politely before dragging Barry across the floor to sit at a table right down front and watch the trickster god finish. He went right on into [_Superman’s Song_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EeyhKWjQaKk), Crash Test Dummies a drastic shift from Muse and definitely not standard karaoke fare. Then again, Sam was dealing with a centuries-old god. His catalogue of music was likely quite extensive.

For someone who understood Sam’s desire to be alone with “Barry” and “Dean,” Phil sure took his sweet ass time getting everyone else into the back of the bar once Huehuecóyotl started singing again. Sam suspected the choice of song was no coincidence when he heard Phil start to sing along where he was stacking glasses, his voice hitching every now and then. A sidelong glance at the bar confirmed that the thirty-something bartender he’d gotten to know a bit over the last few weeks was swiping at the corners of his eyes. There was a story there, one Sam would never learn because that wasn’t the kind of life he and his brother had, where they stayed in place and got to know people. It made the younger Winchester’s chest ache at the thought of Dean listing all the reasons Superman was, indeed, awesome, but Batman was clearly the superior superhero, and how he’d probably be able to learn more about Phil in one conversation than Sam had in three. His fingers were itching to stab someone with a wooden stake by the time the song finally ended four and a half minutes later and the trickster relented, shutting down the music system and coming to the table as Phil, Elaine, and the waitstaff vanished through the “Employees Only” door.

“So.” The very old coyote planted himself in a chair across from Sam and Barry, startling the hunter out of his brief moment of self-reflection. God, he needed Dean back so badly. “I take it this is the point where I spout off some villainous monologue and you threaten to stab me with that toothpick in your pocket, then I ask if that’s a wooden stake dipped in blood or if you’re just happy to see me.”

“No,” Sam snapped, earning a look of genuine surprise from the lesser god. “This is where I tell you I don’t give a crap what your reasons are, only that you put my brother back in his body and go find a place where he can’t track you down to make you pay for what you’ve done to him.”

“What I’ve done to him?” the god echoed. He really didn’t seem to have a clue what Sam was talking about. “Sam...may I call you Sam? After living inside your brother for nearly three weeks, I feel like we’re family.”

“We’re not,” Sam growled, but Huehuecóyotl was only amused.

“Sam, I haven’t done anything to Dean that I haven’t done for Stacy and Barry.”

“Use their bodies to have sex with anything willing and on two legs?”

“What makes you think I’d stop with things on two legs?” The nauseated horror that swept over Sam’s face had the god laughing outright, then pulling a cell phone out of his pocket to take a picture. When Sam recoiled at the camera flash, he put the phone down and didn’t quite manage to rein in his glee. “I’m sorry, truly, but you should’ve seen your face. Here, let me show you.”

He actually did try to show Sam, but the hunter slapped the phone out of his hand and across the room with enough force for Barry to snap, “Hey! That’s mine and it doesn’t have insurance!”

“I’m sorry Barry,” Sam snarled, leaning so far into his space that the man shrank back in his chair and quickly averted his eyes. “You should get your mommy to buy you some. Oh, wait, you can’t, because you _killed her_.”

“He what?” Huehuecóyotl demanded. He had a very convincing ‘I’m so shocked’ face. So convincing that Sam almost believed he was.

“Yeah,” Sam shot back. “You switched bodies with Barry here and instead of running away from home, he decided to kill his mom and frame my brother for it. I’ll bet he left Dean’s fingerprints all over the trailer.”

“Oh, Barry.” 

Something dark and violent flitted across Huehuecóyotl’s face, fully befitting an ancient god. It settled in and made a home, clear as storm clouds marring a sunny day. Sam had no time to react before the god reached out and touched Barry’s cheek, a tiny white spark no more noticeable than static electricity arcing between them. Though he couldn’t see the exchange, it was clear that Barry was back in his body a second later with how his demeanor shifted. His expression turned from anger to shock at the same moment a look of deep, grim disappointment disrupted the lines of Dean’s face. 

“What…” was all Barry had a chance to say before the very old coyote snapped the cuffs behind his back and leaned forward to touch Barry’s forehead. He was gone without so much as a puff of dust as Sam got a hand finally on the wooden stake, jolting back from the table and sending his chair clattering to the floor.

“Demon cuffs,” Huehuecóyotl mused, pulling them off entirely with a single tug and dropping the two pieces onto the table. “Charming.” He turned to Sam, wearing Dean’s patented smile, and sighed upon seeing the stake. “Come on, Sam. We both know you’re not going to shank me while I’m wearing your brother. The two of you are so twisted up together you’re practically conjoined. And then of course there’s that whole soulmate issue. Sit back down and we’ll get to know each other a bit and once you get past the fact that I’m something you typically hunt, you’ll realize I’m pretty awesome.”

“Pretty awesome?” Sam scoffed, the words tasting like bile on his tongue. “You took my brother’s body without his consent. You’ve _used_ my brother’s body without his consent to have sex with who knows how many people…”

“Thirty-seven.”

Sam nearly choked.

“What?”

“Thirty-seven people. I didn’t have that much time in him…” Huehuecóyotl was entirely nonplussed by Sam barreling across the table to grab him by the collar of his ripped tee shirt. His only response was to shrug a shoulder and add, “Relax. Only six of them were men.”

Sam didn’t care that he was wearing Dean, he hauled back and punched the Aztec god square in the mouth, feeling a perverse glee when Huehuecóyotl spat blood out onto the ground.

“What gives you the right?” Sam demanded gruffly, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. His hands were shaking badly, it was impossible the trickster missed it, but he made no attempt to pull away.

“It’s always my prerogative when I take a new form, what I do with my time in the flesh,” the coyote explained. “Usually I’m not quite so promiscuous, but your brother - well, he’s divine. Not that you’re anything to shake a stick at. The two of you clearly won the genetic lottery. Shame you’ve chosen to spend your lives hunting things that could muck up your pretty faces.”

“We didn’t choose this,” Sam hissed, long-contained bitterness threatening to break out of the carefully constructed box Sam built to bury it.

“Yes, I’m quite familiar with your daddy issues. Listen, Sam, I gave Dean something he needed, and in return, I got something I needed. It’s really that simple.”

“Without asking him.”

“Well, that’s true, but you humans are shockingly prudish when it comes to sex. I’d never get anywhere if whenever I suggested switching places with someone I mentioned that sex is what keeps me young and vibrant. Frankly, the 1980s and ‘90s set me back more than a bit, what with the whole AIDS thing, and when you’re as old as I am, it doesn’t take long before the mileage starts to show.”

“But you _didn’t_ suggest switching places with Dean! You just did it!”

“That’s true, too.” The god’s eyes softened, showing all the centuries of his immortal life as he gazed sincerely at Sam. “Things aren’t like they were when I first set foot on the earth, Sam. No one worships lesser gods anymore. Well, they do in some ways, but not the way they used to - not overtly. Not reverently. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt I had a real purpose. Karaoke was a much-needed breath of fresh air for an old god like me. The chance to help lowly humans, ordinary people, live out the dream of being a famous singer for a song or two. But it wasn’t enough, not nearly enough, and then I met Stacy. And I realized I could _help_ someone. I could _save_ someone. I’d never done that before. After a thousand years, to experience something _new_.”

“You didn’t tell her about the whole ‘I’ll just be using you to have lots of sex’ either,” Sam accused, and Dean’s face scowled back at him.

“She’d have never agreed if she knew,” Huehuecoyotl said seriously. “And she needed to make it to somewhere far away from that man. It was only a matter of time before he killed her.”

“And Dean?”

“He spoke of a woman, one he could never escape. The defeat I saw in his eyes... I could smell the hunt on him, knew he’d stake me sooner than agree to switch places, but he _needed_ it. And the timing was right. I could feel Stacy was about to have her monthly cycle, and while a woman’s fertility is a powerful and beautiful thing, it’s also quite messy. I’ve never enjoyed it. I thought your brother was at the mercy of some ordinary stalker. A serious one, obviously, to have a hunter so rattled, and some time hidden away would do him good. It wasn’t until I took his form that I realized he’s running from the Darkness.”

“And you switched with Barry to get him away from his mother.”

“A lapse in judgment, obviously, since he used his new body to kill her. But otherwise, things have turned out remarkably well.”

“Remarkably well?” Sam faltered, his hand twisted in Dean’s shirt again. “Barry murdered his mother, framed my brother for it, and Paul came back when we were looking for you and beat Dean half to death! You’re zero for three on saving people there, pal!”

“Paul did what?”

“He saw his ‘girlfriend’ standing outside her apartment and went full out Ike Turner! You get that reference, don’t you?”

“That…” Huehuecóyotl truly looked apologetic. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“Tell that to Dean and Stacy. They’ve got him in a medically induced coma and when you switch them back she’s going to have to deal with pins and plates in her arm and half a dozen fractures to one side of her face!” Sam wielded the wooden stake, pressing it up against Dean’s throat even though they both knew he’d never use it. It made him feel marginally better regardless. “And now you’re going to fix it. You’re coming with me so you can body jump in whatever order you have to to get Dean back where he belongs!”

“The Darkness is still after him,” the trickster reasoned. “With me in your brother’s skin, she’s cut off from him. She’ll have no influence.”

“We can take care of Amara,” Sam snapped. “You couldn’t even take care of Paul.”

“I never kill humans, Sam. That’s not in my job description.”

“Yeah? What’d you do to Barry then?”

“Sent him back to his trailer and tied him up for whenever your law enforcement gets a call about his mother. Remember, I’m a trickster. My powers are essentially limitless.”

“Hey, Sam, Dean.” The “Employees Only” door didn’t have the decency to be squeaky, and Sam had to hurry to hide the wooden stake before Phil saw it as he wandered across the floor. “You guys just about finished?”

“Yeah, we were just leaving, right Dean?” Sam snarled, snatching the remains of the demon cuffs from the table to stuff in his pocket. Those were going to be a bitch to fix.

“Yes, we were, Sammy,” Huehuecóyotl beamed, one hand dropping firmly onto Sam’s shoulder.

“It’s Sam,” Sam spat, enough of a warning in his eyes for the trickster to take a step back.

“All right then. Glad to see whatever you got drugged with is wearin’ off,” Phil said with a smile before looking at the karaoke setup. “Where’s Barry?”

“He went home,” the trickster replied. “Don’t worry though, he said George’s grandson will be by in the morning to collect it. I don’t think Barry’s going to work out as the DJ long term.”

“Oh. That’s a shame. Well, goodnight guys, drive safe.”

“‘Night Phil,” Sam called as he grabbed the coyote’s elbow and hauled him towards the door. “Come on.”

“You know I can just transport us there, right?” the god asked. “Just pfft! And we’re there.”

“I am not explaining to my brother that after he spent a month wearing a bra, bleeding from...down _there_ , getting beaten to a pulp, and having his body pimped out to anyone who smiled at him why I left his Baby at a bar,” Sam hissed, shoving him out into the parking lot.

“Fair enough,” Huehuecóyotl decided after taking a moment to stare at the Impala. “Dean does have an unhealthy obsession with this vehicle.”

Sam was pretty damn sure the very old coyote had no business determining what was healthy and what wasn’t. He kept that to himself, however, as he slammed the car door shut and started the engine. It would join the long list of things he planned to keep to himself about this case, right next to being so indelicate with Baby and the drastic uptick in the total number of notches on his brother’s bedpost. He could only hope that when the trickster gave Dean his body back, he took the memories of his time in the driver’s seat with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the things I loved most about Regarding Dean, and which made up for the terrible casting of the villain, was the waitress' genuine horror at the thought she'd taken advantage of him. Yes, it was played for laughs, but it was still nice to see an acknowledgment of the consent issues that are largely ignored.


	12. Chapter 12

Visiting hours had ended, of course, which left Sam with an Aztec god for a roommate at his hotel. Since Aztec gods had no need for sleep, Huehuecóyotl kept the younger Winchester up until well past midnight puttering around and complaining about the two-star accommodations. When Sam demanded some peace and quiet, the very old coyote said he could always go out and find someone else to spend the night with. It earned him such a murderous look that he relented and spent the rest of the evening watching music videos on Sam’s laptop. While he _did_ sing along to most of them, at least his singing put Sam to sleep.

Sam woke in the morning to the sound of Flamenco dancing, turning with heavy eyes to glare at his brother’s form sitting on the second bed, still watching Youtube and eating Cheetos. Huehuecóyotl was in the center of a pile of candy wrappers and potato chip bags, clear indicators that he’d made a run to the vending machines at some point. Sam supposed he should be grateful that the old god hadn’t decided to hook up with anyone the minute Sam fell asleep, but having castanets in place of an alarm clock somewhat dampened any joy he might have felt.

“‘M takin’ a shower,” Sam muttered as he stumbled his way to his duffle, dug around for clean underwear, and headed towards the bathroom. Two hours of sleep were enough to make even the most ardent morning person uncoordinated. “Y’know how to make coffee?”

“Shh!” the coyote admonished, sucking the cheese powder off his fingertips. “I’m watching [ Maria Pages](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BdDD9JX-Tyg). Have some respect!”

“What?”

“What do you mean ‘what?’” Huehuecóyotl had the nerve to look offended. “She’s magnificent!”

“She’s loud,” Sam snapped before slamming the bathroom door shut.

For only a two star hotel, the place had excellent water pressure and plenty of hot water. Sam mused at how happy this place would have made his brother if they were going to stay in New Mexico after untangling this whole mess, which obviously wasn’t happening. Still, the shower helped work out the kinks in his shoulders and back from his fight with Barry the night before, and when he finally stepped out of the small enclosure to towel himself off, he was feeling marginally better about the world.

Somehow in the span of time it took to shower and dress, Sam’s guest had fallen down the rabbit hole of some strange mash-up of genres called flash mob wedding videos. At the moment he was glued to a bridal party dancing to Kelly Clarkson while [ the bride lost her ever loving mind](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wuG8yhoE2Ts&list=TLPQMTgwMTIwMjHnyq_3B4RMnA&index=3). They weren’t even well choreographed, but Huehuecóyotl was watching with absolute glee as he tipped the crumbs from a bag of Ruffles into his mouth. Sam tried to ignore it as he found a shirt and jeans, but it wasn’t easy when the god kept giggling.

“Can you just...turn that off and get ready, please?” Sam demanded at length. “We need breakfast.”

“In a minute,” was the dismissive response, followed by another giggle. “This does my heart good.”

“What? Watching wedding guests try to keep their strapless dresses up while they jump around a dance floor?”

“Of course! Look at the joy on the bride’s face! This is the point of my existence, Sam.”

Sam huffed in annoyance but humored the thing wearing his brother and paid attention to the video for a few moments. He had to admit, the guests _did_ look happy, which was neither here nor there. All the happy brides in the world weren’t going to make up for Barry’s dead mother and Dean in a coma in the hospital.

“Maybe I’d care if _someone_ made _coffee_ like I asked,” Sam spat, sitting down to shove his feet in his shoes so he wouldn’t lay back down and pass out for another four or five hours like he wanted to. “Put on some pants. I need food.”

“I’m afraid the only clothes I have with me are the ruined ones Barry was wearing last night,” Huehuecóyotl declared petulantly.

“The pants are fine. Muddy, but fine. If it’s really that big of a deal, use some of your ‘limitless powers’ to clean them. You can borrow one of my shirts. Come on.”

After another ten minutes of grumbling, the old god did just as Sam suggested and magically cleaned off the jeans, grabbing a dark tee and Sam’s orange and black plaid that Dean always said made him look like a pumpkin. In short order they were sitting at the counter of The Western Grill, Sam growling into his coffee as Huehuecóyotl flirted with everyone that walked by. No amount of glowering from Sam got him to stop this time, though the television above the coffee station eventually did. The morning news carried the story of an elderly woman up in Williamsburg who’d been murdered the night before, her son coming home from his job as a karaoke DJ to discover an intruder in their trailer. Watching Barry tearfully explain how he’d been tied up by the killer, and didn’t know why he’d been spared, but that if anyone knew anything to call the County Sheriff, was enough to put even the coyote in a bad mood. He stopped flirting entirely to focus on his pancakes, and despite his best efforts, Sam couldn’t contain a triumphant grin.

Jody, Call-me-Margaret, and Stacy were already at the hospital waiting on the doctors by the time the hunter and god finished their food. Jody recoiled at seeing Dean, though she managed to catch herself before Stacy’s mother noticed, giving them both her standard hug even if she was a little stiffer with the old coyote. Sam introduced his “brother,” who smiled inappropriately at every nurse that walked by them ( _male or female_ ) and was clearly irritating Stacy’s mom with his behavior. He finally had no choice but to drag Huehuecóyotl away so he could call Cas, hoping the angel was over his leering problem. They had no actual proof they knew “Stacy” other than “George’s” word, and Mrs. Jackson was definitely the kind of woman who wouldn’t hesitate to call security on two strange men hovering near her injured daughter.

Sam hadn’t even managed to hang up the phone before he heard the familiar monotone of, “Hello, Sam.” That Castiel didn’t continue his standard greeting felt like a punch to the gut, though of course he would know what Huehuecóyotl was. Even so, he was sizing the Aztec god up with a dangerous glint in his eye, a look that Huehuecóyotl was returning unabashedly. It would be just Sam’s luck for Cas to decide _now_ was the time for some kind of ridiculous cosmic showdown, and he grabbed the angel’s trenchcoat and dragged him away before that could happen.

“You know a very powerful trickster is wearing your brother,” Cas declared rather casually as Huehuecóyotl trailed behind them.

“You know all about wearing people, don’t you?” the god said just as casually, grinning at the electric blue eyes turned briefly in his direction. “Ooo. The feathered helper has some talons!”

“Both of you, stop,” Sam hissed before they reached Dean’s hospital room. Mrs. Jackson really looked suspicious now that yet another strange man had entered the picture, but fortunately, the doctor made an appearance at the same time and explained that it looked like “Stacy’s” brain bleed had stopped so they were going to try to wake “her” up.

Mr. Jackson was a major stumbling block when it came to Sam being there when ( _if_ ) Dean woke up. Understandably, she wasn’t too keen on a large, random man being in the room with her very vulnerable daughter, even if she’d spent some time with Sam the day before and by all outward appearances he seemed to be a nice man. Her opinion of him was waning in the face of two other unknown men as she began to question who exactly these people were. Sam couldn’t blame her. Her daughter, as far as she knew, had severe injuries, and she was surrounded by people she didn’t know and had never heard of, only one of whom was a woman. It certainly didn’t help when Huehuecóyotl started singing [ Fountains of Wayne ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dZLfasMPOU4)in a misguided attempt to ingratiate himself with her.

“I really think it’s best if you all stay out here,” she snapped, her arms folded tightly across her chest to signal the finality of her decision.

“Of course,” Sam agreed immediately, glancing over at the old Native American man sitting next to Jody, who was staring at him with wide-eyes. “I just...uh...think that Dr. Cas here should go in with you. He’s a therapist she’s been seeing. He might be able to help her stay calm. George, you remember me telling you about the friend who could _help_ her, don’t you?”

Stacy looked from Sam to Cas and back again, and in a matter of seconds was standing as she nodded, saying, “I do. You said having him here might make her feel better.”

“Yes, this is the guy.” Sam clapped him on the shoulder and Cas managed a sincere looking smile. “We’re happy to stay out here, Mrs. Jackson, but Dr. Cas really might be able to keep her calm once she starts to process everything.”

“I’m very good at helping people process,” Cas piped up, just barely on the right side of lecherous. When this was over, Sam was sitting him down and asking him what exactly the hell his problem was.

“Well, all right,” Mrs. Jackson decided gruffly, turning on her heel to head into the hospital room without waiting for Cas to follow.

“Heal the hinge in his jaw first,” Sam muttered after grabbing the angel to keep him outside for the briefest of consultations. “They couldn’t get a good look at it. That way he can talk.”

“Roger that,” Cas replied, and Sam had to wonder when he started understanding the correct usage of slang.

“He’s going to fix me before we switch back?” Stacy asked quietly.

Huehuecóyotl snorted before Sam had a chance to reply.

“Oh, I’m sure he’d like to fix you, Stacy,” the old coyote said, his frosty tone causing the hairs on the back of Sam’s neck to stand on end.

“Let’s just sit and wait for a minute,” Jody suggested, ever the peacekeeper even as she threw the younger Winchester a concerned look. “We need to figure out how to get the three of you in there anyway.”

The world came into blurry focus for Dean, unaided by the bright white light that kept flashing across his vision. It hurt to open his eyes, to swallow, to try to move his head away from the light - hell there wasn’t any part of him that _didn’t_ hurt. There was a rhythmic beeping sound that sped up when someone grabbed his hand, and there was something down his throat making him gag. He coughed, trying to get it up and out, and immediately felt large hands on his shoulders, holding him down.

“Stacy, I need you to relax while we get the intubation tube out,” a man said, and Dean wanted to correct whoever it was about his name, then he remembered everything all at once and nearly threw up.

It didn’t help with getting the endotracheal tube out of his throat. The only thing that stopped him from choking to death on his own vomit was a voice he knew well saying, “Calm down, Stacy,” as he felt fingertips against his jaw. A familiar warmth spread down his left mandible and up along his cheek, taking with it some of the pain he was feeling. Then the tube was gone, leaving him gasping for air with an esophagus scratched raw, small hands carding delicately through his hair.

“Stacy, honey, can you see me?” asked a small woman with streaks of white in her flame-red hair.

Rolling his one uncovered eye towards her felt like it strained his entire head, and he could have wept for joy when Cas said, “Can you see your mother?”

Normally, he would have been able to put two and two together and figure such a simple thing out on his own, but trying to think was exhausting and it was a mistake when he nodded in response. The doctor, mercifully, noticed and took his good hand, switching to simple questions with one squeeze for ‘yes’ and two squeezes for ‘no.’

Having to answer the doctor’s questions was interminable, even with his face feeling better, and he was trying not to panic about Sam not being there. Not that it wasn’t great that he had Cas in his corner, but Cas hadn’t been acting like himself for a while. With the real Stacy’s mom hovering in his space and stroking his right arm above the cast, he had no idea how Sam was going to get in to update him on what had happened in however long it was he’d been unconscious. Fortunately, he only had to wait until the doctor left, and then in perhaps the least subtle display of powers Cas ever put on, the angel walked around the bed to touch his fingertips to Mrs. Jackson’s head and knocked her out cold.

“We know what’s been wearing you,” Cas explained cooly, with even less emotion than he showed on a good day as he went to the door and waved Sam and Huehuecóyotl inside. Stacy and Jody stood up as well, but he held up a hand to hold them off, saying, “Better wait until we know if this works.”

That struck Sam as strange, but not strange enough to stop him when the very old coyote was already moving to stand next to Dean. He could see his brother’s eye widen and his nostrils flare as he looked up at his body and noticed the new bruise on his cheekbone from Barry’s fight with Sam. It was such an improvement from his current state that he didn’t focus on it, instead reaching out to clutch at the hem of Sam’s pumpkin flannel to pull Huehuecóyotl over to the bed.

“I am sorry, Dean,” the old god told him. “I was only trying to help.” As Dean grunted at him, he looked to Sam and asked, “What injuries do you think we can safely heal?”

“I already took care of his jaw,” Cas said. “Two of the six fractures in his face. I can ease the swelling in the ribs and make sure there’s vision in his left eye. Ensure the nose heals straight. Beyond that, it would be too noticeable.”

“I think Stacy will find that acceptable.” Huehuecóyotl turned to Dean, moving in and smiling brightly down at the beaten figure on the bed. “Ready to have your body back?”

“Mmm,” was all Dean could manage, and when the coyote touched his chin, Sam saw the static electric spark and caught his brother as Dean stumbled back into him.

“Dean!” Sam exclaimed, steadying the older Winchester as he got his equilibrium back.

“Holy crap,” Dean said, his voice thready and weak like the damage to Stacy’s throat traveled with him. He leveled a glare at the figure in the bed, but Sam already had an iron grip on his bicep and wasn’t letting him go. “What the hell are you?”

“Trickster,” Huehuecóyotl grunted with Stacy’s broken teeth. “As an apology for this mess, I’ve fixed your tone deafness. You’re both welcome. Give me a minute with your friend, then send Stacy in.”

Dean growled, ready to inflict more damage on the redhead looking up at him, though he relented when Sam said, “Dean. Come on. Let’s get going before the doctor comes back.”

“Yeah.” Dean needed about a thousand showers to wash away the vague knowledge of what the trickster had been doing with him, as well as a couple bottles of whiskey, and he wasn’t going to get them in a hospital. “Yeah, okay. But if I ever see this bastard again…”

Sam dutifully ignored the way his brother’s voice cracked, pressing an arm along the line of his shoulder and steering him towards the door.

“Jody’s waiting outside to say hi, and Cas has to do some more fixing,” Sam said quietly, nodding to the angel as he added, “I’ll send Stacy in in a minute.”

“Fine by me,” Cas replied, smiling minutely as he watched the door close behind them.

“Are you really going to heal me?” the trickster rasped as the angel turned back to him, the corners of his mouth twisted down.

“That depends,” Castiel retorted. “On what you plan to tell the Winchesters.”

“You mean about not being the only one who’s been doing some body jumping?” The very old coyote raised the one eyebrow that wasn’t covered with a bandage and grimaced. “I have no quarrel with you, Lucifer. I just wanted to help out a few humans.”

“Glad to see you know your place, dog,” the angel snapped, then leaned in to do the promised healing and headed out to tell Stacy her body was ready for her.

Sam, Dean, and Jody were still in the hall after Cas fluttered off when the vibrant young Native American man walked out of Stacy Jackson’s hospital room. It wasn’t difficult to picture him as the god of carnal desire with the long, lean lines of his tanned body and the straight black hair that fell past his shoulder blades. His mouth was wide and lush, his cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, and without a word to the Winchesters, he winked one smokey eye and vanished down the hall.

“You wanna check on her?” Jody asked, watching Sam fidget while Dean clenched his fists.

“Yes,” said the younger Winchester.

“No,” said the older, and she regarded them with a single quirked brow.

“Well, head on in and see how she’s doing, Sam. I’ll make sure Dean doesn’t run into any other Aztec gods,” she told them, and with a grateful smile, Sam headed off to make sure Stacy would really be okay. Dean, of course, was another matter, and he tried not to flinch when Jody laid a hand on his arm. “You good kiddo?”

“M’fine,” Dean grunted, crossing his arms firmly over his chest so he could shove his shaking hands up under his armpits.

“Don’t try to lie to me. I’m a mom.” She was relieved when he leaned slightly into her touch, but he didn’t do more than that. “Anything you want to talk about?”

“Nope.”

“Didn’t think so. But you’ll call me if you do?”

“Yep.”

He smiled at her, one of his fragile ones, as Sam came back out to collect him and ask if she wanted a ride to the airport in Albuquerque. She politely declined, because as much as she’d like to mother them, it was clear Dean wasn’t going to allow it and she hadn’t made her reservations anyway. She’d check in in a few days to see how he was, ask again if he wanted to talk when it was safe with a phone between them and she couldn’t see his face. She hoped as she watched them walking away, Sam hovering slightly, that the younger Winchester could get his brother to open up with his puppy dog eyes and some well-timed whining. Knowing how they tended to cope by pretending nothing truly bad ever happened, she doubted it. 

“You and Jody talk about anything interesting?” Sam asked as they hit the parking lot and he tossed Dean the keys, his brother shivering against the chill with only a tee shirt and a flannel.

“She wanted to have some girl talk,” Dean replied, turning over the engine and letting the rumble of the Impala soothe his frayed nerves. He still felt off-balance and slightly nauseated after everything that happened, and he couldn’t admit to himself just yet it wasn’t because of switching bodies. “But I pointed out I wasn’t a girl anymore.”

“Ah.” Sam watched his brother carefully, his eyes stinging at the sight of him, then turned to look out the window and clear his throat in a manly way. “No chick flick moments, then?”

“No chick flick moments,” Dean confirmed, turning on the radio to avoid having to speak anymore. When [ We Belong ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qxZInIyOBXk) came on and Dean sang along, hitting every note to perfection, Sam decided it was okay if they didn’t talk about Stacy or Paul or the nearly forty new sexual partners Dean technically had now until his brother was ready. If the end of Dean’s tone deafness was the only bright spot in the last three weeks, Sam was going to take it.

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you look at that? I'm nice enough to fix Dabb's canon fuck-ups by giving Dean a reason for suddenly being able to sing after 15 years of canonical tone deafness. 
> 
> Thanks for reading everyone! The next work will be a little while, have to finish an actual *paid* writing project. Huzzah!


End file.
